


Extraction

by Serinah



Category: Marvel 616, My life as a weapon
Genre: Businessman Tony, Fluff and Angst, Fractions Clint, Human Trafficking, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Secret Identity, Seduction, Spies & Secret Agents, Undercover, agents on a mission, escort Clint, illegal arms dealing, love at first.. seduction, secrets and lies, some s/D sex, some torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 39,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23836261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serinah/pseuds/Serinah
Summary: A former SHIELD agent, Clint Barton, now presumed dead, is caught up in a world of illegal arms deals and human trafficking. To get out, he fucks people for money and business contacts. Will seducing his next target, Tony Stark, help him, or will losing his head and heart ruin him entirely?Tony is handsome, rich and successful. He's not looking for love, especially not with a paid escort that he meets by accident at an international gun show. Getting caught up in a web of lies and deceit is definitely nothing he expects, nor is a broken heart close to anything he needs.The story is COMPLETED.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Other(s), Clint Barton/Tony Stark
Comments: 210
Kudos: 143
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mizzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/gifts).



> **Warnings:**
> 
> In this story, Clint is undercover, so he seduces people for various reasons. He knowingly chooses it and even though there are power-relations coupled with sexual relations in this story, no one is being raped. Everyone consents and I don't see it as dub-con here.  
> But if even a hint at coercion is a problem for you, please, take care of yourself.  
> If you need more information, contact me on Tumblr: serinah80
> 
> **Other notes:**
> 
> Canon Divergent Fraction Clint, young, just joined SHIELD.  
> Natasha is already a part of SHIELD, but not via Clint - they've not met.  
> 616 Tony is 24, parents dead, but he's not yet IM.
> 
> **HUGE THANK YOU for the beta:**  
> Bae  
> Faustess  
> And Ven for the Farsi coaching :)
> 
> **Also:**
> 
> Antrodemus and Van 
> 
> for the help with the arms smuggling thing. That was hard to figure out for me. So THANK YOU!
> 
> (It has NOTHING to do with Hemsworth's new film. I was writing this long before I knew of the film. As far as I'm concerned the Russo's stole my title. I *supremely* unamused!  
> LMAO :D XD)

**_One year, nine months ago_ **

At first, Clint tried to open his eyes to see if his dad was close, but his eyelids were heavy and he was too tired to really worry about it. He didn’t hear any swearing, so even if he was near, he was probably already passed out anyway.

He drifted, but that was okay too. Pain was everywhere, so it felt good to rest for a bit. Barney would wake him if they had to run.

Was Barney okay?

After a while, the pain started pulsing concentrically but it wasn't clear where. Should he care?

He threw up. Someone cleaned his face. Mom?

Slowly, the noise morphed into voices, Barney's face into that of a stranger’s and numerous points of concentrated pain of various levels told him that he was probably hurt quite badly.

He opened his eyes. Small room, dirty white walls, peeling paint, no windows. There was a closed door to his right. Good. On his right was good because-

At that point, Clint realized several things at once. First, there was something wrong with his right side and thigh (probably a gaping wound or two); second, his wrists were tied to the bed railings of a hospital bed; and third, he’d lost his ears because the sound was more muffled on his left. Because of-fucking-course. Because why would he have an expensive piece of technology on him if he didn’t have his jacket and was tied-

He closed his eyes against the pounding headache but it didn't help for shit. If he'd been made why wasn't he dead? If he hadn't been made why was he tied to the bed? He looked around the small windowless room once more. It wasn’t even trying to pretend to be an actual hospital room. Where…?

Tajikistan. A largish country in Central Asia, bordering China, Afganistan, Uzbekhistan and Kyrgyzstan; Population: around nine million. Languages: Tajik, Uzbek, Russian. Lots of mountains, goats, some heavy metal industry and some good routes for illegal arms dealing and human trafficking…

Because what else would they want with Daniel McKenzie, 23, an anthropology student who was backpacking through Eurasia and learning local languages for fun? He didn't think he was pretty or female enough but some rich tourists had been kidnapped near the capital in the last few years. Maybe they were checking how much his relatives would pay for him?

With an effort, he turned his head to the door on his good side. Cleared his sore, dry throat.

"Is anyone there?" Clint called out in Tajik.

No one answered. He tried to call out again, tried to unlodge his bindings, to sit up through the pain, to-

No, upending the bed would be stupid - there was little chance of a potential weapon lying on the floor for him. After exhausting his pretty limited Tajik, he tried Russian but it was clear that he was being ignored on purpose so he switched to English.

“Hey, could you scratch my nose, please? It’s itching!”

“Or read me a book? It can be anything from news to fairy tales, I don’t care!"

"Porn?"

"Goat porn?"

“Champagne and caviar? Hungry here!”

“A bedpan maybe? If you don’t bring it ASAP, it’s gonna get real smelly in here soon!”

Clint often regretted stupid things he said for a cheap laugh but rarely he ended up regretting saying something that much.

They gave him a bedpan.

Of course, it probably wasn't in any way connected to his blabbering in a language he soon realized none of his jailers spoke anyway. By the time an older woman came in with a chipped tin mug, he didn't have to pretend too much to appear panicked and out of control. Whatever they wanted from him, it would be best if they didn't realize that he had training in withstanding torture.

Clint thanked the woman for the water and smiled at her. She startled but didn’t reply to his inquiries in any way. She left and closed the door. No lock. That was good.

  
  


The agent, he’d had to get the package from, was dead, Clint knew that instinctively, but the fact that he wasn’t actively being interrogated showed that they'd never connected him to the operation because otherwise he'd have woken tied up in a chair with wires on his balls.

Suddenly it occurred to Clint that the agent might have used the dead drop before he kicked it. Clint had to get back to the city ASAP. How long had he been out?

On the bright side, Clint assured himself, he had food, water, and bandages. But these were probably the only items in his pro list column. Coulson probably thought him dead too. Clint knew that they'd not expected much from a junior agent that got this assignment mostly due to his handler's unfounded belief in him. It had also been shit timing that several more experienced agents had been needed elsewhere that week.

He had no idea how he'd even survived. The explosion must have taken the whole building and the best part of the tunnel. What had that package been anyway? Information on illegal arms deals? Drugs? Human trafficking or smuggling art? Clint hadn't been briefed about the details and at the moment, it didn't matter. If he hurried, maybe he could still get what he came for?

Food, water, bandages. Okay. In the other column he had nausea, bad ears, tied hands, a bum leg, and general weakness. The closed door behind which lay the unknown. And a bedpan.

On the plus side he added: all limbs attached, pain level negligible, no torture, no guards, cover intact. Given a chance, he was in fighting form. He’d certainly been worse.

Maybe he should count the bedpan as a pro, not a con?

  
  


His hunger was getting worse, but the woman only brought him some weak broth in the same stupid mug after which a man with a rifle hanging on his back came in. The brute started with a punch in the face and then asked for his bank account number and the access codes.

Clint cooperated but messed up a number or two. Scared people did that, right?

Some time passed. He wasn't let off the bed nevermind out of the room. The lights were constantly on and no one talked to him. After the third time he was fed, he overbalanced his bed to see if he could gain some advantage in the form of a stray nail or glass shard, but the only thing it got him was a black eye and bruised ribs from the same rifle man who came in earlier but he didn’t come close enough for Clint to grab anything.

The next ‘meal’ came after a longer pause, or at least it felt like that to Clint, so after that, he started singing. He didn’t work very hard to stay in tune. He got through two carnival songs and was into the second verse of Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’ when a younger man with no visible weapons came in to yell at him from over the doorway.

“Well, if you ask so nicely,” he replied, making a kissy face at him.

The boy blushed scarlet and fled. Clint counted to thirty and started on ‘Oops, I did it again’ which granted him a second visitation from the same youngster, so Clint shut up.

When he thought that a shift might’ve changed, he started with ‘Let it go’ and just after he pitched his voice into an awesome falsetto to sing the high parts, someone new, a weathered soldier, kicked the door open. Clint shut up and grinned.

The man swore at him (to recognize that, Clint didn’t really need to understand the language) but he wasn’t very angry, so Clint resumed the chorus and received a butt of the rifle to the face.

For that day, Clint stopped singing.

The next day (at least Clint thought that it was the next day) it was the boy from the day before but this time he had a jacket with lots of pockets on him. Clint started on ‘I know a song that will get on your nerves’. The boy yelled at him and left. Clint gave him enough time to return to whatever he’d been doing, and then resumed with the same song on top of his lungs. This time, all the words in Tajik and Russian, some of which were just creative things about whoever's mother.

The third time the boy stormed in, he grabbed Clint by the shirt and punched him several times in the face and stomach. When he left, he didn’t have his knife with him and Clint was smiling on the inside. His actual smile was a little messed up.

In less than fifteen minutes he was free and out of the door, and even though he managed to overpower the boy, the old woman started screaming. The reinforcements arrived in under two seconds.

“Hey! A party!” Clint cheered as the door opened and the first three assholes poured in.

He kicked the first attacker, but his leg was weak and fighting with half your face swollen and a hole in the thigh wasn’t the most thrilling thing he’d ever done. He almost broke through the offence but at that point, three more men came in and he was surrounded.

All were armed and grinning ferociously. From the words they exchanged with each other, it seemed there would be no mercy killing. One put his rifle away and the other two leaned on the wall to observe.

“Not the face, not the face!” Clint wailed, ducking away from a set of metal knuckles. “I wanna be pretty!”

Someone kicked him in the kidneys from behind and Clint went down. He was good at playing possum, but they only stopped hitting some time after he got limp. He’d say that he got a beating of his life, but they didn’t even hit him in the head.

“He alive?” one of the men asked in Tajik.

“Maybe,” the other replied.

They went back and forth on what to do with him, some of which Clint didn’t understand and most of which revolved around him not breathing, but in the end, someone grabbed his hands and it took everything in Clint to stay limp as they started to drag him somewhere. 

“We’ll dig the hole in the morning,” one of the men said.

Ah. That made sense.

Okay.

When it got quiet, he opened his eyes. It was the same room he'd been held in before but the door was still unlocked. They hadn’t tied him up, either. The best part? Didn’t shoot him.

Pansies.

Mentally, Clint high-fived himself.

After a little while, Clint crawled out of the room and before dawn he heaved his battered body on a truck that was being refueled. He hid under a tarp and somewhere along the road, several women joined him in the van. All young, some too young. Only one was crying.

  
  


**_A month ago_ **

Clint lay on the bed, ignoring the wet spot under him, his pants still around his thighs and mostly pleasant ache between his asscheeks. He turned his head to smile sweetly at the man who had just fucked him.

"Mm…" Clint hummed appreciatively. "I love that you're still big even when soft. Your name should be Maximus."

"You got big mouth," Aryan replied with a strong accent. "But I like that." He took the jacket from the chair. "Get dressed, we are leaving," he added in Russian.

Aryan Karimov, 47, was a Tajik and very proud of it but he rarely spoke the language when doing business, unless he needed someone dead. Or when he drank, but mostly not even then.

His business partners paled when he started speaking his mother tongue and his henchmen straightened, ready to draw their weapons.

In his family circle it was different, of course, his kids he always addressed in their mother tongue. But Clint wasn’t very privy to that part of Aryan’s life. He was sure the ruthless businessman and a murderer was a relatively good father though. Comparatively.

"I'm going to Abu Dhabi next month," he said in Russian. "You’re coming with me."

Internally, Clint startled but his fingers were steady on his belt buckle.

"What's in Abu Dhabi?"

IDEX, it had to be IDEX. The International Defense Exhibition and Conference took place in Abu Dhabi every year and SHIELD was sure to be there.

Clint's heart started jackhammering.

"I have an assignment for you there," the man said, not looking at Clint.

Nodding, Clint swallowed his distaste. He didn’t mind sleeping with people if they were willing, but sometimes, those people got blackmailed, and that part, Clint really detested. But it wasn’t like that always, and lately, Aryan had mostly stopped hinting at him to flirt with this or that official’s wife, so this assignment must be special.

“Anyone important?” he asked curiously, trailing the beautifully crafted swords and knives on the wall with unseeing eyes.

Aryan stepped in front of him, his face relaxed into something that counted for a smile with him.

“Like my weapon wall? The kinzhal you are eyeing is my favorite.”

“The dagger?” Clint smirked. He switched to English. “You don’t need to compensate for anything, Aryan. I’m much satisfied.”

He caressed his boss’s jacket lapels and Aryan took a sharp breath.

“Not compensation. This bedroom is special.” He looked at Clint up and down. “All my favorite things are in here.”

Clint grinned.

Aryan stepped back.

“This assignment is important,” he said.

It was as close to asking as Clint was ever going to get. It was a delicate balance, operating on the sharp edge of ‘I’m your boss, you must do this, but please don’t make me make you’.

It hadn’t always been like this and strangely, Clint suspected that Aryan must have stopped thinking of him purely as a tool and a bit of like a… employee he was actually trying to be friendly with? An employee he was fucking. In short: it was a shitshow.

It wasn't done to be out about liking dick in Tajikistan. So those of Karimov's closest advisors and family that knew about Aryan's PA being his live-in whore, were diligently pretending that they didn’t. His wife even took it as far as ignoring his mere presence any time they met. Once Clint even had to get out of the way before she collided into him with her perfect hair and the tea tray with expensive china she was daintily carrying.

Clint wasn't in a position to protest, nor did he feel the right. As it was, he _had_ seduced her husband. Besides, even with as secular as the Tajik muslim society generally was, it was still almost medievally patriarchal, so he supposed she should take whatever win she could. Clint told himself that he didn't much care. _This is what you wanted_ , a voice whispered in his head. _No. It was what I chose. That's not the same thing._

However shitty the situation usually was, assignments Aryan gave him using this tone, Clint hated even more. Aryan knew that Clint would probably not like it.

"Gun Exhibition," Aryan went on, combing his fingers through his thin hair. "There's a man: Tony Stark. Sleep with him."

Internally, Clint sighed. There was no way that such a gorgeous-looking playboy billionaire as Stark would go for Clint. The idea was ridiculous.

“I can certainly try,” Clint started dubiously. “But it’s not the same as keeping your business partners' wives happy. I bet Tony Stark is not bored to tears and - wait.” He turned back to Aryan. "Is he even legal? I know that he’s got a reputation, but how old is he exactly, twenty-one?"

"Twenty-four, don't worry." Aryan packed up his laptop and pocketed his phone. “Not bored, maybe. But men take dick rarely. He will like you.”

In New York? Not as rarely as in Tajikistan. He stepped closer to Aryan so he could fix his tie. Aryan allowed it but stepped away a moment later.

"You sure he even goes for blokes?” Clint checked while accepting his own phone from Aryan and pocketing it. “Isn't he supposed to be a known ladies man?"

"Usually. Sometimes men. You will work hard."

Right. Like that will help Stark’s prick up if he's not really interested.

"What if I get him drunk? Will that be enough?"

"Just make sure he wants to hang out with you later," Aryan switched to Russian. "Take your time, make him like you. Best if he wants to keep you around."

So not just a kidnapping and torture for information. That was good.

"What if it takes longer than the exhibition?"

"You'll seduce him and then introduce us at an opportune time. If he invites us both somewhere, we can stick around longer. Travel. Invite him on a boating trip or something."

"He might not be into blonds? What about a threesome? Would that work?"

"No threesome," Aryan continued in English, his eyes glinting wickedly. "You tall, strong jaw, good shoulders, truth? He like you."

Clint stepped closer and put his arm around his waist, but Aryan grunted and stepped away. 

"You look like Captain America. Stark a fan."

Clint snorted.

“I’m no Captain America,” he muttered, trailing after Aryan out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint meets Tony! Are you excited? :D
> 
> (I played fast and loose with commas in this one. This time I did it on purpose. Possibly sorry for the previous chapter? LMAO. And the next one?) :P

**_Now_ **

"You thinking of buying anything?" Clint asks while getting out of bed. "For an arms dealer, you really don't like guns nearly enough." He saunters towards the bathroom. "But if you are buying, might I suggest something with an oomph? In a leather case lined with purple silk. We could take turns caressing it like a beautiful woman while we shoot our loads-"

"Big mouth. Good for many things but not words." Aryan’s voice is quiet but resolute. “Go to your room.”

“But I haven’t had my coffee,” Clint protests. “You aren’t seriously kicking me out before I had my morning coffee, are you?”

“Get it elsewhere. I’m busy.”

Which means business. There are things Clint isn’t trusted to hear even after a year. Even though he'd accompanied Aryan to actual meetings and has seen the illegal guns that were bought and then sold with his own very eyes.

Well, he'll just need to be sneaky about it later. He gets dressed and goes.

  
  


In his room, Clint orders coffee and takes a shower.

Abi Dhabi. Finally, somewhere with some accessible internet and phone service that none of Karimov's men can control. The landline at Karimov's manor is under surveillance, and despite the fondness that sometimes creeps into Aryan’s voice when he talks to Clint, the mobile he’s allowed is certainly monitored. It doesn't even take wifi unless his boss authorizes it. The same as Aryan’s wife’s really, so not that strange. Unless one counted the fact that none of the other males in the family were treated like that.

He opens his laptop to check Aryan’s schedule and emails that come through his inbox. Nothing new there. Not surprising. The schedule that Clint sees never has all the information.

A glorified secretary and a dirty secret on the side, that's what Clint is. He tells himself that it's all for the mission, that at a crucial moment, he saw a way in and took it. That he wanted to prove himself professionally and the opportunity to sleep with the big boss had been a good way to do it. And it is true. How it makes him feel, is not important.

He even gets good money for it, but anything he does with it gets back to his boss. He can’t even give it to charity without raising questions, not at this point. Anything he does, gets back to his boss.

That no one gets out of the family, is unquestionable. The only way is to push through the information, pass it on. Get a thank you from SHIELD and a lot of side-looks.  _ Oh, this the junior agent we lost almost twenty years ago? Because he joined the mafia? What made him come back? _

No one will believe he’d done it on purpose. It could take ten years and nobody will believe him. Coulson will put on a good front and tell everyone that he does but it will be out of pity.

Clint should get out now. Just disappear. Go somewhere and join the circus again. That’s what he’s good for. Or he might join an escort service for real, he’s mighty educated at giving pleasure now, after all.

Clint Barton, an escort extraordinaire.

Well. At least he’d get more choice about who he slept with.

  
  


The first glimpse of Tony Stark that he gets is at the opening event. The man is at the bar, chatting up a brunette in a green dress with an open back.

Thankfully Aryan doesn’t do micromanaging, so he doesn’t rush Clint when he just saunters at the other end of the bar to order his own drink. After a little while he pays, and starts walking past the pair when he stops and turns directly to the woman.

“Hey, Celia!” he says with a big smile. “Long time no…” He lets his face fall and appear uncertain, then embarrassed. “Oh, I’m sorry! I thought you were someone else.” He laughs awkwardly but hopefully in a charming way. “I’m not butting in, I-” he turns to Stark, stumbling for a moment as if recognizing him but then pretending that he hasn’t. “I promise.” He gives his ‘charming a stranger’ smile and rushes off as if still embarrassed.

He goes back to Aryan, but he’s deep in conversation with another patron and nods to Mehrab, who’s the only lieutenant that has accompanied them to the VIP section.

“I’d pat you on the back and be all sympathy if I didn’t suspect that everything went according to plan,” Mehrab says in Russian.

“Aww, thanks, man,” Clint replies in English. “I knew you loved me!”

Mehrab doesn’t smile. He knows how insincerely the words were meant. Mehrab is one of the reasons that Aryan doesn’t fully trust Clint. Mehrab has great instincts and apparently, they are telling him that Clint is untrustworthy. Like most of the assholes in the family, Mehrab is also vaguely homophobic and respect apparently isn’t something one can show to a man who takes it up the ass. Clint suspects that is the main reason most of the family never speaks Tajik with him - that would make him ‘one of the boys’ and a fag can clearly never be that.

Ignoring Clint, Mehrab turns to look towards the open area of people milling about, eating finger food and talking.

“I need to know when the mark heads back to his room,” Clint tells him in Tajik. “Before he gets there or somebody will be in a bad mood,” he adds just in case Mehrab thinks that the orders aren’t coming from up high. Clint is never sure how much the man knows about Aryan’s actual plans.

“My sympathies,” Mehrab says, indifferently, not confirming that he will help Clint in any way, but Clint knows he will. No one wants Karimov in a bad mood even if they all keep hoping that he takes it out on Clint. But if business is good, it’s good for everybody and Mehrab knows it.

“Mehrab, you know I love you, but you couldn’t recognize sympathy if it shit on your head and sang a song about it.”

Slowly, Mehrab turns his head to Clint and looks him dead in the eye. “Never tell me you love me again. Is that understood?”

Tajik. Oh-oh!

“Understood. Crystal clear and obvious.” He grins. “Like sperm on a cookie.”

  
  


When the signal comes, Clint spills half of his pink cocktail on his shirt and sprints towards Stark’s suite. On the way, he lowers his tie and takes a couple of deep breaths to end up looking more flushed than he would be usually (Clint can’t spar regularly, but he does jog on a treadmill and works out in the gym, so he is still in reasonably great shape).

At this point, Clint has no idea if Stark will be alone or sober enough for his plan to work, but if not, he’ll just have to wait until morning.

Arriving on the right floor on time doesn’t pose any difficulty. As the elevator door opens, Clint drops his shoulders and saunters on somewhat unsteady feet towards the suite next to Stark’s. Next door is about ten feet away, but still visible.

He takes his key card out and just as he hears the other elevator arrive, starts fumbling to slide his card through the door slot. Predictably, it stays closed.

Clint makes a baffled huff and tries again.

"Sim sala bim," he calls out quietly with a slightly soft tongue, "door to my treasure cave, open up!" He giggles. Tries again. Stares at the keycard and then stroking the door, sings the magic words again.

"And what magical treasures are you hoping to uncover?"

Clint startles and turns around. Stark is standing behind his shoulder, an amused smile gracing his face and a warm twinkle in his eyes. Unbidden, Clint’s lips stretch wider.

“Hi there,” he croons. “Are you my hero come to the rescue?”

“Depends on what you need saving from, sugar.”

Thankfully, he is alone and more or less sober. Clint has no idea yet what his level of his inebriation means for the chances of his plan succeeding. Is he more likely to be charmed by Clint or less?

Clint turns to lean his back against the door and to appear shorter, slouches a little, lifting his face upwards to expose his neck. He chuckles, embarrassed. “Won’t even pretend to think that it’s a faulty card. Usually, it’s just me.”

Stark hums commiseratingly. “Tech not your friend? Not that I know what that means, with…” He gesticulates with his hand towards his own person. “Me being me.”

Clint tilts his head and squints. “You being…” He widens his eyes in surprise. “Tony Stark! Oh, I-” He turns away, crumpling his face in embarrassment again. “We met earlier. At the bar.” He shrugs, glancing at Stark but just for a moment. “Well, I’m sure you remember. Seems I can‘t keep from making a fool out of myself in front of you.”

“A fool once, a fool twice - I must have been asking for it.”

Clint laughs a bit drunkenly. “Strangely, you are making sense."

There is a pause.

"Here, let me…"

Stark reaches for the keycard but upon contact, Clint's fingers fumble and it falls.

"Shit," Clint swears, laughing. "Sorry," he adds and starts to squat just a second too late.

Stark is already down, picking it up, grinning as if he's won something. A sharp sense of… lust runs through Clint when the man's face is so close to his cock, and in a precalculated move, he juts out his crotch into Stark's smiling face.

Instead of startling, the man hums, standing. "That was quick. I haven't even touched you yet."

Clint blinks. "What? I… what?" He adds more quietly as if just realizing what has happened. "Oh, I…" He blinks and for some inexplicable reason blushes for real. "Well, I didn't really…" he trails off for a second unsure of his strategy. "You offering?" he says, plastering a too confident to be real smirk on his face.

The moment the words are out of his mouth, he knows he's made a mistake. Too soon. Even if the rumors are true and Tony Stark is a complete man whore, why would he want to fuck a random clumsy-ass oaf? Well if he’s going to be turned down anyway...

He straightens, renews the fallen smirk and steps almost flush with Stark's chest. He tilts his head to look Stark in the eye. The man looks started.

Another mistake. Fuck. Mentally cursing at himself, Clint swallows. The large warm dark blue eyes are starting up at him full of challenge and... desire?

Oh.

"Wanna come to my place?" he utters, having lost any finesse and subtlety as if he’s fifteen again.

"Yeah, good idea," Stark says, his eyes still locked with Clint's. "Except you can't get in."

These are sex eyes. These are definitely sex eyes but they are also full of mirth and that is throwing Clint off. He can't look away.

"But that's what I've got you for," he replies, still drinking in the sight.

Stark grins and not stepping away from Clint, reaches past him to slide the card through.

Clint's fists tighten. Men don't usually like him being too assertive. It would probably be a mistake to just grab and kiss him, right?

Stark frowns.

Clint swallows in dismay. How has he already fucked it up? He's not even done anything yet!

"Are you sure this is the right door?" Stark asks.

"What?" Oh! He nearly forgot about that.

"Or the right card?"

Stark steps around Clint to try again and being able to breathe again, Clint inhales deeply.

"Um…" He tries to even his breathing and concentrate on the plan. "Four… four-one-eight?"

The brunet laughs and despite everything, Clint smiles back.

"What?" He stares at the other man.

"We are in seven hundreds. You got off on the wrong floor."

The warmth in Stark’s voice makes Clint lightheaded, and he feels himself flush. "Haven't gotten off yet," he says stupidly but it only makes Stark's grin widen.

"Let's go," Stark grabs his hand and starts walking to the end of the hall.

They are almost at the door when Clint comes to his senses.

"Wait, wait, wait! Weren’t we supposed to be testing out my card?"

"This is closer." Stark gets his own card out.

Clint's heart starts pounding again but his smile never wavers. Fuckity fuck, if he boggles this up, there will be hell to pay. How can he establish any contact with SHIELD if he’s lying black and blue on the floor of his hotel room and possibly still tied up?

"But I need..."

"I've got condoms," Stark assures him, opening the door and Clint is most definitely fucked.

"But…" he starts trying to cast around for a reason, any reason to go to his room. "I've got… stuff there…"

Maybe he can convince Stark to have a repeat encounter? If doing men is just an itch that Stark scratches occasionally, this will be it, though. No recording, Aryan enraged, his own mission thwarted.

On the other hand, a man saved.

"Stuff?" Stark zeroes in on him with rapt attention. "What stuff? Do you have… special equipment?"

The way he says the phrase is promising. If Stark has kinks Clint can exploit, there’s a good chance of him wanting a repeat performance.

"Some." Clint smiles lasciviously and hates himself.

Now that he's more or less sure he can pull it off, the wave of intense self-loathing crashes over his head and drowns him. He keeps smiling.

None of the three recordings Clint had been a part of so far, have been made public but they have been used for blackmail. For that, Clint will never forgive himself. Just as he will never forgive himself for doing what he’s doing to Stark now.

“Wanna come and test it out?” he asks, stepping closer.

  
  


“Danny, Danny Lorraine,” Clint tells him later in the elevator.

“Pleasure to meet you, Danny. Call me Tony.” Stark- Tony puts his palm on Clint’s pec and slides it in under his jacket.

Clint sucks in a breath and grabs Tony’s hip. “The pleasure will be all mine soon.”

He would’ve hit himself over the head at the slip; not many men he’s recently slept with tolerate any assertiveness in bed, but Tony’s eyes darken and it sends an answering surge of want down Clint’s spine.

Next moment, they are kissing. Then, the door opens and they are undressing, making out on the couch with Clint straddling Tony, tearing his clothes off.

“Oh fuck,” Tony says when Clint keeps holding his upper arms pressed to the back of the sofa.

“Oh yes,” he says when Clint ties his hands behind his back with Tony’s own shirt.

Clint leans over to put his mouth on Tony's nipples and plays around until Tony is quivering with want. 

“Tasty,” Clint says in a throaty voice he doesn’t even have to fake. “Gonna eat you all up. Like a cupcake.”

Tony cracks up and Clint has to stop kissing him.

“What?” he asks even though his own mouth is wide in a smile and he knows. He’s laughing too, surprised because somehow he's lost control, but hasn't ruined it.

“God, Danny, how can you say things like this and still look sexy?”

“It’s a skill.”

“Or a natural talent. Now shut up and kiss me, scrumptious.”

“You’re a bossy shit for such a pretty bottom,” Clint parries and leans in to take another kiss.

Tony moans.

  
  


Clint is sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. It is almost seven and he wants to go. Leave. Run like the cowardly trash that he is. But he needs to make nice; Tony needs to like him, invite him to things or let himself be invited.

Only the problem is, Clint didn’t just enjoy the sex for what it was (and what it was, was a rare chance to be himself, to enjoy domination in however tiny meaningless measure with a beautiful man who gets Clint’s jokes and seems to genuinely be into him); he also really, genuinely likes the man that Tony Stark apparently is. Who Clint has just betrayed in the most sickening way.

Clint is trash. Just the scum who shouldn’t be allowed to mingle in human society, not worthy to lick the dirt from under Tony's shoes.

God.

His legs itch to stand up. His fingers itch for the smooth surface of- Clint needs to stay and play nice. He needs to be out and about tonight and for the next three days; he can't allow himself to be out of commission in any way. He will find someone halfway trustworthy to send a message to-

“Hey, pretty.”

Fuck.

“You okay?” Tony asks after a second.

His voice sounds hoarse with sleep but also warm with familiarity and there’s nothing more Clint wants to do than to turn around and bury himself in the arms of this wonderful man who is fun and feels safe.

But there are cameras and he's a performer so he straightens up, pastes on a smile and turns around.

“Yeah, cupcake?" He almost sounds normal. Tony doesn’t know him enough to know any different. “Want me to tie you to the bed? I can rim you for breakfast.”

Tony's eyes do the thing and Clint's heart picks up.

"Will you show me your special equipment too?"

"What? Does my cock not qualify?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) Hope this is a satisfying first contact? ;)


	3. Chapter 3

Tony has good sex regularly, so he knows what he’s talking about when he says that the sex last night was mindblowing. The morning after though? The morning after is even better.

Danny cuffs him to the headboard and rims him until he begs for relief, but even then he stops twice to ‘edge him properly’.

It’s bliss.

The best part? The after isn’t awkward at all.

Mostly due to them sleeping in, and while Tony doesn’t care at all, Danny has gone into a mild panic mode.

“Shit,” he curses “Aryan will have my balls.” He pulls his slacks on. “He’s gonna rip them off and cook slowly.”

“While having you look on as he feeds them to you for breakfast?”

“Lunch probably.”

Tony stretches. “He your boss?”

Danny hums in agreement. “Aryan Karimov from Karimov Group. Tajikistan.”

Tony doesn’t tell him that he has no idea who that is. “Isn’t Tajikistan one of suppliers for ISIS?” he jokes, but for the first time during the course of their acquaintance, Danny doesn’t catch it.

“Not officially, no.”

Huh. Does Danny know something about it? More than one would learn through the media? With a vague sense of regret, Tony watches as Danny rushes about to get himself ready to leave. Well, it’s not as if Tony thought that it’s a romance for the ages, but he would’ve loved for it to stretch throughout the event.

“Get dressed, I need to go,” Danny says, emphasizing how badly Tony has read the situation again.

“Hold your horses, Captain Awesome, I’ll find my pants,” he snipes, getting out of bed.

Danny stops, grimaces, and turns his eyes back to Tony. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.” He swallows and there’s something lurking in his eyes, not merely regret, it’s stronger, Tony could even say fear but that doesn’t make any sense, and it’s gone in a second. “Someone always-” He cuts himself off. “I’m sorry, I would love for you to stay here, but I just thought that you might be more comfortable-”

“That’s not a very convincing save, Lorraine,” Tony says, but he is smiling. It’s obvious that Danny is used to casual sex and not all of his lovers have been agreeable the morning after. He finds his clothes and starts dressing.

“Yeah, I’m a mess,” Danny admits self-deprecatingly. “I just really, really need to go, but I…” He looks away as if gathering his courage, and then, raising his eyes to Tony’s, continues, “I would also really, really like to see you again.”

And that there in his eyes is the truth, Tony can see it plainly. There’s no falsehood and it’s not even a ‘yay I’ve bagged a celebrity’ glint. It looks sincere, as if Tony is actually worth something to him on a personal level, as if there’s a connection and helplessly, Tony smiles.

“Sure, just leave me your card and I’ll call you,” he promises, but Danny’s smile goes strained.

“Yeah, give me a moment.”

He gets out his wallet and blindly, digs out a dark purple business card with something golden on it. Tony wants to ask, but the next moment Danny puts his arm around Tony’s waist to draw him close. His right hand ends up cradling on the back of Tony’s head, and his lips, when they touch Tony’s, are intense as if searching for something that they are very clearly not finding. Tony opens wider but instead of the kiss turning passionate, Danny’s tongue invading him feels desperately emotional, like an appeal for more, but more what Tony has no idea. He’s only sure that he’s never felt anything like this before in his life.

When Danny finally releases him, they are both panting slightly.

“Wow,” Tony deadpans. “You really want me to call you, huh?”

Danny smiles but it’s sad, and his light grey eyes are hooded with something that might be shame, but it’s gone the next moment.

“Don’t worry, big guy,” Tony says. “I now have a good incentive to call you.”

“Sure.” Danny’s grin grows lighter and Tony feels marginally better.

  
  


The first thing Tony does after closing the door of his suite is to take Danny’s business card out of his jacket pocket so he wouldn’t forget it. Distractedly, he glances at it and-

What. The. Fuck.

No wonder it’s purple, a part of Tony thinks inanely.

_ Danny Lorraine _

_ Escort Service _

Heavily, Tony sits back down on the bed and stares at the card. Well. And he just gave it to Tony. Just like that. Unselfconsciously, like Tony gives out his ‘you know who I am’s. But that is obviously different.

Isn’t it?

You don’t just sleep with someone, tell them you liked them and then… Was that a freebie? A hook? It’s rather difficult to breathe suddenly, like a fish out of water isn’t an inept comparison.

It didn’t feel as if Danny expected money, though. Tony has bought companionship before, and granted, they’ve never felt like that either but even high-class escorts tended to be a bit more upfront about it when at work. Had Tony been ‘work’ for Danny? A light feeling of nausea rolls over Tony and he staggers towards the inbuilt bar in the corner of his sitting room.

Three gulps later, Tony feels better. More clear-headed.

So maybe Danny doesn’t see Tony as work. Unless he’s playing the long con. But why give him the card then? Tony shakes his head. How do escorts date? Tony has never had a cause to wonder about that but he’s never imagined that they’d just tell a stranger they hook up with for pleasure about their employment.

Employment. Karimov Group. A weapons trade company.  _ Aryan will have my balls.  _ Aryan. Not Mr. Karimov or even Karimov. And if Danny is employed by him then obviously Danny is here on business, just not the business Tony had assumed he was in. Was Karimov Danny’s ‘work’?

The image of Danny running away from Tony, telling him that he’d like to see him again and then giving him… this card.

What the fuck does it all mean?

  
  


Tony manages to arrive at the main exhibition floor between presentations and walks around with two hands in his pockets, tinted shades over his eyes. He doesn’t care that he looks like an asshole. He’s decided that whatever Danny’s intentions are, he’s an asshole. Tony struts around and greets people he really needs to greet, ignores people he wants to ignore, and when he spots Danny’s back he…

He slows his walk and steps behind a rather large lady and her hat. In his head, Tony calls himself every unflattering name he can think of but he still spies after Danny from the corner of his eye.

Danny looks confident as always, smiling and talking… Walking behind his… boss. Who fucks him.

He probably knew that Karimov wanted to fuck him in the morning so Danny rushed there like a turkey on speed. Fuck, Tony hopes Danny will- No. That’s unfair. Danny doesn't owe Tony anything. It was one night, so what? Danny was just trying to make a living probably - find the richest john present, sleep with him once, maybe he’d want a repeat?

And Tony, the poor gullible idiot, does. He very much does. Just on his terms. The Karimov’s group of three moves on and like a pathetic idiot, Tony trails after them. The other two men discuss the weapons; they don’t engage Danny. Of course not, why would they, if he’s just an arm candy and a hole? It doesn’t seem to bother Danny though; he seems content. Watches the displays, smiles at pretty people, shares a joke with a seller, then a stunning brunette in a dark pantsuit--god, what a figure--would Danny tap that? Only if she’s rich probably.

Then Karimov turns to Danny and says something. Tony can’t see the man’s face, but he does see Danny’s: his smile never wavers but neither does it change from the polite one he offers everyone. His right hand, however, tightens into a fist, then relaxes as if shaking out phantom or chronic pain. What does that mean? Is it a remembered pain that has something to do with-

Stop it. Danny is a grown-ass man, he can look out for himself. Hating himself a little, Tony turns around and walks into another pavilion.

  
  


By the time the evening entertainment starts, he’s made up his mind. Fortified with four drinks, he takes one pretty lady out onto the dance floor like he doesn’t care. Then, just in the middle of a foxtrot another couple appears to his left.

“Mind if I cut in?” Danny’s lying mouth laughs.

“Sure,” Tony says and turns to take the brunette off Danny’s hands when he’s interrupted.

“No I meant the other way,” Danny says, his face full of a happy grin, his voice sounding like a conspiracy. “The ladies apparently like each other.”

Before he knows it, the women are in each other’s arms, and Danny’s hand is on Tony’s hip, but the embrace feels unpleasant and Tony steps out of it.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he objects. “We are not doing the vertical tango where everyone can see it. Let’s get a drink.”

Danny chuckles easily as if it’s exactly what he expected and most likely he did.

“What are you having?” Danny asks as if he’s planning to pay.

“Scotch.” Tony turns to the bartender. “Give him something pretty to match his eyes. Put it on my tab.”

“Why thank you, darling,” Danny almost purrs.

Tony grimaces. It’s so, so on point, how all of his seductresses have always acted. The only reason he hadn’t seen it earlier was that Danny was a man and men were usually more straightforward. No one has ever sent him a male honeypot.

“You are welcome, darling,” Tony replies and almost winces at the bite in the copied word. He doesn’t. He can only hope that it’s not obvious over the music that even at the bar sounds quite loud. “So…” He’s done pussyfooting around these issues. “An escort, huh? You charge by the hour or can I pay at the end of the week?”

He can almost feel how Danny startles. Lazily, Tony tilts his head towards the blond, smiles, and realizes that no, the reason he never realized how fake the man was, was because of his eyes.

For just a moment they project such open vulnerability that Tony almost falls for it. But even if the shame is real, the reason behind it is not what Tony wants it to be. He sees Danny sliding the game face back on.

“How did you…” he starts, but then his lips twitch into half a sneer which disappears quicker than it appeared. “The business card. I gave you the wrong one.”

He looks away and swallows. Maybe in embarrassment, maybe something else, Tony doesn’t care. He’s enjoying whatever small dose of compensation he’s getting at the man’s expense.

“I messed up. I’m sorry, Tony. You weren't supposed to get that one.”

He shakes his head as if in self-deprecation and chuckles charmingly. God, he looks so sincere it's disgusting.

“You did use the same name as on the card though. Or do you really want me to believe that this is your real name?”

Danny’s laugh is thinner this time. Still pretty good but now that Tony knows what to look for, it sounds noticeably different from the real one.

“What can I say? This the name I go by now.” He shrugs, and this too, looks so adorably sexy that Tony wants nothing more than to take him into his room and put him down. Nail him into the mattress and call him his whore. His.

  
  


That's not what really happens. What really happens is that he puts Danny on his back, parts his legs and tells him to hold his ankles. Then he does nail him into the mattress. After that, Tony kisses Danny on the mouth, calls him pretty and drops his own card on his beautiful chest.

"Send me a check, will you?"

With these words he zips up and walks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, they'll make up. Promise! :)


	4. Chapter 4

Clint is such an idiot to have mixed up the cards. But. Tony might be saved even if Clint was doomed. Maybe. Or maybe Tony has enough porn about himself on the internet that he won’t care. Kinky porn with a man? Pffft, that’s so last year!

Yeah, right.

Aryan will be mad as hell when he finds out, sure, but maybe if Tony acts cool, Clint can fake it for a while. He’ll just try smiling at Tony and see how it goes… He’ll just approach Tony when Aryan nor Mehrab see his face, in case Tony scowls at him. If Clint grins hard enough, they won’t know.

He’d win a day. Maybe that will be enough.

There might not be enough time for ascertaining who’s who on the SHIELD team if Aryan gets mad at Clint for the failure. If that happens, he probably won’t have an opportunity to venture out in the open for a while, so he will just give the flash drive to one of the SHIELD people and hope that they are smart about it.

Pantsing it is a bad strategy, but if anyone were to be good at it, it would be Clint. And it might be his only chance anyway.

  
  


"Everything good?" Aryan asks him quietly between events. "He want more?"

Aryan knows they’ve had sex twice now, but that Tony had been dismissive of Clint’s pleasure and that his eyes were like two cool pools of reflective mirrors drawn up to hide what’s inside, is Clint’s own private hell. The surveillance has been shut off after the first night because Mehrab has always hated this part of his duties; the homosexual part, not the sex tape extortion part.

"Of course,” Clint bluffs, “you know me. They always want more."

They both know it's not true, but Aryan never wants to hear about probabilities. So having moderately good survival instincts, Clint assures him that everything will work out. He’s a gifted faker.

Surreptitiously, he looks around the VIP area. Finding the representatives of the US army and SHIELD is not the problem. Deciding which of them to approach is harder. The Big Shot is probably too much of a bureaucrat and won’t go to Coulson and the Sexy Redhead is too much of an enigma, so Techie it is.

It’s lunch when Clint decides to make his play.

As usual, Mehrab chooses the table at the wall far from any doors and Clint’s back is to the room, but thankfully, he’s got a view of the wall mirror and knows that Techie is eating alone and that the Big Shot and Redhead have not arrived yet. He orders seafood and uses his fork to propel a hard shell over his shoulder and onto the table behind him.

He jumps up. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” he exclaims, turning towards the people whose lunch he interrupted. “I’m your regular octopus; can’t aim for shit! Should’ve hit my own forehead or at least that ugly flower pot over there-”

“Yes, that’s okay,” the man at the table interjects tersely, while his female colleague keeps smiling at Clint indulgently. “We’re all fine, as you can see.”

“Oh, don’t be rude, Andy,” the colleague says, hitting the man’s arm lightly. “Everyone’s done it at least once.” She leans closer to Clint and mock whispers, “I never eat them in public myself.”

Clint laughs gamely, sweeps his eyes around the room once more, apologizes once more, and looks back at his own tablemates.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Karimov,” he tells his boss. “I’m just gonna…” He gestures towards the restroom to indicate his shame-filled retreat.

Aryan gives him his usual short nod but Clint knows he’s pissed off. It will cost Clint but nevermind; he just needs to make it count. Sure that he’s in the clear, Clint’s heart stops when Mehrab says, “Your phone.”

“What?” Clint blinks, twists his face in a momentary impression of resignation and pastes a grin on. “Aww, man!” He takes his phone out and puts it on the table. “I was hoping we were past that!”

He half shrugs and goes. As luck would have it, the rest of the SHIELD group has arrived, but thankfully, the tech guy is still at the table, and even better, just leaving. Playing it by ear has never been a problem for Clint, so while passing their table, he just slides his eyes to Redhead’s cleavage, stops them there and bumps into Techie.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, man,” he says for what feels like the thousandth time today while grabbing the man’s upper arms to steady him. “I should watch where I’m going, I keep-” He slides his hand down Techie’s arms. “-doing this today. I should’ve stayed in bed, honestly!”

“No, that’s okay, I’m fine.” The Techie blinks and smiles and Clint lets go of him.

He steps back, his heart sinking with every word the guy says. Shit. He’s miscalculated. This is just a nerd at a gun a conference, he should steal the flash drive back. He should-

“It’s quite alright, Donald,” the woman says, standing. “Let me see, if you’re alright.”

With this ridiculous excuse, she steps up to Techie and angles herself so that the poor man blushes, obviously thinking that’s a cop-a-feel or a come-on, but Clint’s instincts say otherwise. 

Shit.

Shit.

Shi-

He nods to both of them and leaves the room as quickly as he can.

In the restroom, he goes into the stall, locks it and leans his back on the door. Shit-shit-shit-fuck-fuckerdiah-Ahab’s cunt. Shit. Fuck.

The woman has the flash drive. How she made him he doesn’t know- No he does, he’d just discarded her and acted in her plain view, but… She’s very good. That’s good, it means that she’s smart. He just has to hope that she’ll draw the right conclusions.

Damn.

Suddenly, he realizes what he has to do. As long as Aryan has no idea that his initial plan for Tony has fallen through, Clint might have time, but it would be safer to do it now. Hastily, he tears a piece off his regular business card and scribbles ‘Coulson’ on it. Then he crumples it up and, hiding it in his hand, walks out.

He doesn’t stop to look at anyone, just strides past the redhead and throws the piece of paper into her lap. Aryan and Mehrab are just finishing up and they stand to leave. The lieutenant pockets Clint's phone and the three of them move for the exit.

“What if Stark calls?” Clint asks easily as if he doesn’t care.

“I’ll let you know,” Mehrab says.

  
  


Unsurprisingly, Tony doesn’t call and Clint spends most of the evening tied up in various stress positions that have only one purpose: maximum pain. Aryan comes back between the panels to give him two minutes of stretching his muscles and redoing the ties in new and creative ways. After the last event, Aryan unties him for the food and a bathroom break and ties him up on the floor again. He does it all dispassionately; it’s a punishment for failure, not revenge. Aryan Karimov believes in discipline but not in raw force, so he never beats his employees up, never harms them permanently. Unless he means to have them killed.

When Aryan unties him in the morning, he puts Clint's phone on the nightstand and says in Tajik, “Forgive Mehrab, it’s a stressful week for us all.”

Sure. No problem.

  
  


It’s been over a year and Clint has learned that the more beat up he appears, the faster Aryan will forgive him. But he can’t. Not this time, not ever again. No.

He waits until his boss leaves before moving.

It’s hell.

All his muscles are sore, there’s a massive bruise on his ass and the other on his opposite hip. Clint takes a hot-hot-hot shower and imagines nailing a naked Aryan to a wall by all the soft places and smashing a live wasp nest against his balls. Leaving him to it.

Moving as energetically as he can, Clint goes through the day quietly, smiling at Aryan gratefully when he brings him a coffee and spewing jokes as needed. Aryan smiles at him indulgently and suddenly, Clint realizes that Aryan is proud of him. It makes Clint want to wring the Tajik’s neck then and there.

By the time Clint sees Tony, it’s late afternoon. He’s exhausted from standing, nevermind mingling, so he just smirks at the man. After a second, he realizes that he can’t ignore Tony unless he wants a repeat of last night; he needs to show initiative. Even if Tony blows him off, Clint has to be seen trying.

Without looking at anyone, especially his boss, Clint pushes himself off the wall and struts towards Tony. Passing him, Clint leans into him and interrupting whatever conversation he was having with his companion, Clint whispers, “I know you’re not interested, but could you just meet me on the terrace in ten?”

He’s banking a lot on Tony being curious. Even if nothing comes out of it, Aryan will see him making contact. Also, now that it's implied that Clint is waiting for Tony's move, he doesn’t have to ask for permission to go to his room early.

And maybe… Maybe Tony will come.

Clint wants him to come. Wills him to come. To care.

Clint snorts. Tony doesn’t care. Maybe he wouldn’t care even if he knew how serious trouble Clint was in. He certainly wouldn’t care if he knew what Clint did. God, he’s scum. Utter shit. Dumpster fire. It’s fitting that Tony doesn’t care. Fitting that Tony doesn’t like him anymore. Clint hates that Tony got hurt and hates himself but it’s a good outcome. Clint can take scorn. He knows he deserves it; there’s nothing there for Tony and never has been. Aryan gets the pretty shell and Clint gets to keep the rot within.

Dumpster. Fire.

The door to the terrace opens but Clint doesn’t turn to look. He leans his hands on the balustrade and stares out at the pool in front of him. There are steps behind him and Clint holds his breath even though he knows. He knows that Tony isn’t coming. It’s been more than ten minutes now anyway, it’s just post-sex endorphins that have fucked him over. And desperation.

The sound of the steps passes and something in Clint crumples, breaks away from the aching chunk inside his chest, and sinks heavily into his gut. 

Yeah, okay. At least, Tony knows what Clint is now, some of what he is... And the agent will get the info to Coulson. All Clint has to do is wait.

His fingers ache for his bow and they tighten on the cold marble until his knuckles are white and then he grips it harder still. Maybe if it hurts enough, his palms will stop aching for something he might never experience again.

He lets go of the stone and straightens, shaking the tension out of his fingers.

Whatever Clint’s intentions might have been, his dad was still right. Clint is scum. A speck of dirt on the face of the Earth. A little boy that only knows how to look for trouble but never smart enough to get out of it. And now he’s dragged four more people into quicksand. Not just by staying with the Karimov family, but actively implicating good, or at least decent, previously non-criminal people. He’s seduced them, slept with them and let them be recorded without their knowledge. Ruined their lives. Three people and now Tony.

If the redhead doesn’t come through, if Coulson dismisses the information, if, if, if... 

Tony won’t be the last. Clint closes his eyes and tries to take deep calming breaths through his nose.

Clint knows that even though he'd started the self-appointed mission with the best intentions, it had never been authorized and by now he's implicated himself in so many criminal activities on so many levels that he'd be lucky not to face jail time. A promotion had certainly been a naive dream from the moment he found out about the details of the arms trade deals Karimov was involved in and failed to report about them.

_ Mr. Barton, I showed you this list of illegal arms deals submitted earlier. Did you, at any point while in the employ of Aryan Karimov learn about any arms deals on the list? _

_ Which ones? _

_ When did you learn of this? _

_ At the time you learned of this, were you physically restrained or imprisoned? _

_ How about after you learned of this, were you physically restrained, imprisoned, or prevented from using any communication device? _

Yeah, however he looks at it, it doesn't bode well for him. Especially with the powerful enemies he’s started to make.

Tony Stark is young but if he throws all his money and influence behind Clint Barton’s persecution, the sentencing won't be a problem at all.

But maybe Tony won’t care about another sex tape, Clint reminds himself foolishly. Yeah. Right. He snorts.

“Well, that doesn’t sound very merry.”

Clint startles, straightens and turns around, trying to disguise his wince by smirking. Tony's carefree tone is at odds with the cautious expression on his face. There are large light blue shades hiding his eyes, but his body language spells curious, not hostile.

Clint relaxes somewhat. “I knew you’d come,” he quips.

Tony snorts and takes the last step toward the balustrade. He leans his hip on it. “Sure you did, pretty.”

“Sure I did,” Clint insists, turning to Tony, mimicking his pose. At the last possible moment, he remembers not to actually lean on the cold stone.

Tony’s expression sharpens. “You're hurt, aren't you? That's the second time you've winced. And you’re moving differently today.”

Clint's sure he hasn't gone around wincing the whole day but something in Tony Stark seems to be getting through all of Clint's defenses. “You’ve been watching me?”

His tone is edgier than he'd like but it's not because of Tony being a sneaky peek; it's because he's annoyed at himself. How come he hasn't realized that he'd been watched?

“It’s not as if I’ve been stalking you, sheesh!” Tony raises his hands to indicate a chill-out. “We were in the same panel just before. You were standing…” Tony tilts his head. “You’ve been standing the whole day, haven’t you?”

Clint hates the implication that he’s been fucked without care. It’s not true, but there’s no way he can explain it right now.

Tony steps closer to look Clint in the eye and Clint wants to look away so bad. But he can’t: it’s the first time in who knows how long that someone is looking at him with genuine interest. Clint swallows and steps back to put some space between them.

“Ex-ray much? That a superpower you have?”

Tony snorts. “That too.” He takes a look at his watch. “So you needed to get away and make it look like you had a client?” he asks easily. “We can go to your room if you want? I can even murmur sweet nothings into your ear if you want me to.”

There’s an actual lump forming in his throat now. How perceptive is that?

“You don’t have to do that,” he declines, because this is too much. Tony has no obligation to help him, he-

"Oh, I want to," Tony replies with intent and Clint frowns.

Why would Tony even want to…? Oh.

“Well, in that case,” Clint agrees, crushing his stupid disappointment and mustering up a friendly grin. “Let’s go.”

Clint doesn't make it a point of being seen with Tony, but they do go back through rooms that are full of people and he knows that at least Mehrab will notice them.

By the time they make it to his room, Clint is composed and ready to offer a good time.

"You want to order in?” he asks lightly. “Food? Something special to drink?"

"I'll take whatever Scotch you have in the bar."

"Scotch it is."

Clint pours whiskey for himself because he'll need something to numb the pain pretty soon. God, Clint really hopes Tony'll settle for a simple blowjob.

"TV?" Clint indicates toward the large flat screen on the wall.

"Yeah. Good idea." Tony flops down on the sofa with an enviable fluidity and suddenly, all Clint wants is to destroy this natural elegance and… poise or whatever it is that makes Clint's heart hammer in his chest and blood rush to his cock; to see Tony's hair disheveled, his skin glistening with sweat and his face taut with desperation. Clint wants to hear him beg. God, he really hopes that that is what Tony wants. To see that, Clint would endure pain gladly.

Clint watches Tony only for a short while, then puts his glass on the table and steps between Tony's legs.

The corners of his lips tick upwards, but he tries to tame it into something closer to satisfaction than happiness as he carefully lowers himself to his knees and puts his palms on Tony's thighs.

The glass in Tony's hand freezes on its way to his mouth and for a second Clint sees a flash of want in his eyes. The next moment it's gone, displaced by an indecipherable intent expression.

"No."

Clint feels the quiet word like a blow. He manages not to stagger backwards but he knows that the grin blossoming on his face is utterly fake.

"My bad," he says, leaning away.

Standing as gracefully as he can is almost as hard as hiding how much the rejection itself hurts. He's used goods, he knows that. Not very smart or pretty either, so what would someone like Tony Stark want with him anyway? The thought is gone in a moment.

"What's your flavor for tonight then?" he inquires politely.

Tony did come up for something. He takes his glass, walks to the window and leans his shoulder on the wall lightly.

To- Stark just wants something else. It's fine.

"Why don't you come and sit down? Let's talk." Stark says and Clint smiles.

He can do it. He makes it to the sofa but before he can sit down, Tony explodes.

"Can you just admit that you are hurt, dammit? We both know you are, so…" For a moment he flails. "Want to lie down or something? No? Not macho enough for you? You know what? Fine! Stand. Just step back a bit, you're too tall to be so close."

Feeling like an idiot, Clint stands there for a moment longer, then without saying a word, removes his jacket and right then and there, gets down on the carpet, lies on his good side, and props his head on his hand.

"There. Better?"

Tony blinks. Smiles, obviously amused. "Much."

Clint grins. "So what did you want to talk about?"

"Your employment situation."

Clint feels himself still. "What about it?"

"I want to hire you. Till the end of the week and if it works out, for a month. Whatever your standard rate is, I'll double it."

Hardly breathing, Clint stares. There are several things to consider. First, Aryan will be pleased with the progress of his plans, but on the other hand, it would get Clint out of Aryan's immediate control. Would he go for that? Then again, if Clint rejects the offer, where would that leave Karimov's plans? The idea was to introduce them and if possible, make blackmail unnecessary.

"What exactly would that entail?” Clint asks. “Do you expect me to come to the US with you? Will you put me up in an apartment or in a hotel suite?"

"If you want to, yes. But I’d prefer you staying wherever I am." He says it so matter of factly that Clint finds it strangely hot. "Mainly because I like my things close and I might need you unexpectedly and on short notice. That also means our agreement would demand exclusivity: no other clients during that time." He pauses. "Would that be a problem?"

"No. Not at all." Clint's voice is hoarse and he has to clear his throat.

"Good. What's your rate? I assume it's not hourly."

Tony is negotiating himself a prostitute as if hiring a PA.

"Is dental covered?" Clint jokes weakly.

They talk about money and Clint promises to think about it.

"Want a freebie blowjob to keep you interested?" Clint offers but Tony wrinkles his nose.

"I’m not a sadist, Danny. Rest up, talk tomorrow."

  
  


“For a month?"

Aryan’s voice is level but Clint knows he’s impressed.

“Yeah, after the exhibition.” If all goes well.

Aryan hums. “He hooked good then? In love?”

Clint almost snorts. “He didn’t want to fuck me tonight because he thought I was in pain.”

It might mean several things, foremost that Tony is just a decent human being who isn’t into inflicting pain, but he let Aryan interpret it however he liked. It isn’t as if he understands the concept of humanitarianism. He might care about his mother and maybe also his children but Clint wouldn’t bet his life on more than that.

“A month is good. You’re going to agree,” Aryan states. “You report where you are every day and organize us meet. Like an accident.”

Right. Or more precisely, like a trainwreck. Clint doesn’t think it was very likely for Tony to like the guy enough to easily agree to any kind of deal the Karimov family might offer, but that's Aryan’s problem, so he simply nods.

He just hopes that Coulson will come through before Aryan has a cause to show Tony the recording.

“And don’t forget. Your phone is monitored.”

Yeah. As if he can.


	5. Chapter 5

Early in the morning, Tony gets a text with only one word in it:  _ Deal. _

A rush of satisfaction fills Tony’s chest. He’s ditching Karimov. The sadistic fuck is not going to touch Danny again.

Tony orders coffee to his room and thinks it all through once more. Then, pretending that he doesn't usually do these things through his PA, he calls his personal lawyer’s office. He explains what kind of contract he needs to be prepared and about the NDA. 

Pepper will have his balls if she finds out. Or rather when, if it really gets signed. He doesn’t need her to tell him that he's an idiot or that he might possibly be taking advantage of Danny. It's obvious that he's in desperate need of the big bucks if he’s letting someone hurt him like this. Tony knows that some people get off on pain but Danny wasn’t walking around on cloud nine enjoying it. He was hiding it well, Tony thinks, but it still looked more as if he was putting up with an inconvenient situation. Even enduring, Tony thinks. Perhaps trapped.

Oh god. Tony is a first-class idiot. Danny might be an addict. Or a gambler. Or maybe Tony is making it all up and Danny’s an unfeeling asshole who just enjoys fucking people for money.

No. Tony remembers their last kiss and tells himself that he’s right, that Danny is genuine. That Danny likes him. He’s nothing like Sunset. Tony was the one to initiate contact, Tony was the one to flirt first, to offer sex. Danny just went along with it and not once has he even hinted at there being money involved. This is not a trap.

Maybe Danny has significant medical debt?

Yeah, right. It’s that innocent. And Tony is the first knight in shining armor to come and save his Genevieve from a loveless marriage.

Tony puts his phone in his pocket, dons the jacket and leaves the room. Breakfast first, then saving the world, one escort at a time. But not just any escort.

Danny.

Danny Lorraine, a man with a mischievous smile and gorgeous eyes, full of secrets.

Tony reaches one of the multiple restaurants of the complex, makes nice with the server and is joined for breakfast by a prospective business partner. They chat, eat, then move to the exhibition area and separate with a handshake. Tony is thinking of getting a drink from the bar when he’s overtaken by another prospective business partner and they make small talk. The exchange of business cards follows and as they part, Tony’s eyes are impatiently searching for Danny.

He sends off a text:  _ Is Danny Lorraine your real name? We need something to put on the contract. _

There’s no immediate reply and no man himself appears, though Tony does see Karimov and the other man that was with them before. A PA? A bodyguard? They both look like unpleasantly coldhearted bastards. Definitely not a good company, Tony decides. They probably do trade with ISIS.

For the next couple of hours, Tony wishes that his work didn't involve so much networking or that he at least could've brought Pepper, but then he remembers Danny and his regret evaporates.

Instead, he thinks about what his workdays would be like for the next month at SI. More precisely, he imagines what it would feel like to have Danny under his desk at his office while people come in for meetings and Pepper brings him paperwork and coffee. And Danny would be on his knees between Tony’s legs, doing whatever he wanted, and Tony couldn’t give voice to his protests, nor show any outward sign of his reactions due to other people present.

For once, he'd not try to escape paperwork as soon as he could. For once, Pepper would be proud of him. Maybe Danny wouldn't even let him leave his desk before Pepper told him he was done for the day.

"Mr. Stark?"

Tony startles out of his musings. The woman standing in front of him is gorgeous. Big green eyes, flaming red hair, pleasantly attentive expression on her face.

"My name is Natasha Romanoff. Would you allow me a few minutes of your time?"

There are two types of beautiful women. First, the ones that are difficult to say no to because Tony wants to bang them, and second, the ones that he can't say no to because they make him listen.

Natasha Romanoff is both and when she tells him she’s SHIELD, he’s not surprised.

"Don't I already have contracts with you?"

“The ones Director Pierce signed with your father? Yes. But since then, Stark Industries has clearly gone a long way in the communications systems and security software, hasn’t it? Director Fury is very interested in sitting down at the negotiation table with you, Mr. Stark.”

Of course, he is.

  
  


Tony’s heart starts pounding in excitement when he sees Danny enter the room. They'd just signed the contract not an hour ago and Tony is  _ ready _ .

Danny smiles at him from the other end of the room but it's coy as if they are sharing a secret. He takes off his jacket and lets Tony drool over the way his shoulders move under the thin fabric as he struts toward the bar.

As if pulled by a magnet, Tony follows.

"Hi, handsome stranger," he says, sitting down.

He can see a muscle moving in Danny's cheek as if he's biting off a grin and Tony can't help his own blossoming openly in response.

"Hello," Danny says. "And who might you be?"

"I'm a handsome stranger who's going to buy you a drink."

"A drink you say? But mommy told me not to accept drinks from strangers."

"Oh in that case. Hello, my name is Anthony Edward Stark, also called The Man Who Tinkers."

Danny loses control over his facial muscles and grins.

"Pleased to meet you, Tony the Tinkerer. I'm Danny Lorraine, The One Who Pokes."

Tony almost lets out a snicker. "Very mature."

Danny makes a scandalized face. "Poke bears! Like the boy who can't leave well enough alone! What did you think I meant?" he accused.

Tony chortles outright now. "Sure you did," he says. "Just like your name is truly Daniel Lorraine. I'm very impressed with the craftsmanship, by the way. Where did you get the passport?"

"Hey, it's a valid document! Gets me through customs and all."

Danny’s eyes are twinkling and there are dimples in his cheeks.

Tony really wants... He wants.

"Want to go to mine?" he asks.

"Sure thing, gorgeous."

  
  


The moment the elevator doors close, Tony is ready to grab or be grabbed because there’s this aura of something imminent happening but there’s a peculiar expression on Danny’s face that stops him. Danny puts a palm on Tony's breast pocket, stares at him for what feels like a very long second and leans in.

Tony lifts his chin, waiting, but just a few inches away, Danny stops again. Tony’s lips part as if of their own volition despite it and the corners on Danny's lips lift. He hums and covers the last of the distance.

The touch on Tony’s lower lip is light. Danny brushes his mouth from one corner of Tony's lips to the other, and in anticipation, Tony lets out a breath of air. Almost a sigh. He tries to step closer but the hand on his chest is an unyielding force.

Danny hums as if his data has checked out and Tony's hands tighten into fists.

He opens his mouth wider and strains on his toes to finally catch Danny's lips into a kiss-

"Our stop," Danny says with a smile in his voice and as he steps away, Tony sways after him.

It should be humiliating but there’s nothing malicious or degrading in Danny’s demeanor, so Tony doesn’t care. Instead, Danny looks sincerely surprised and delighted, and that only turns Tony on more.

For the short walk to the door, Danny puts his hand on the small of Tony's back, and by the time they get in and separate, his skin is burning with the memory of the contact.

Danny walks past him into the room and places himself on the sofa, lounging there as if he were the master of the house and Tony is still standing at the door.

"Come on in, gorgeous," Danny says, smiling gently. "I’ll take a beer."

Tony huffs. "What am I, your servant?”

“Would you like to be?” Danny eyes him up and down with curiosity but there’s no weight to the pause that stretches as if he’s fine with whatever answer Tony would give.

“Well played, getting me all hot and bothered out there," Tony says, stepping into the room properly.

"Yeah?" Danny grins as if genuinely pleased and it’s stupidly endearing. “Well, if not a servant, then I guess you are the host?" he adds after a second, nodding towards the bar.

"Yeah.” Tony agrees, and pointedly pours himself a drink first.

“Rude,” Danny says in a low voice, but there’s laughter in his eyes.

“Well, you are the one to get me hot and leave me wanting. And in my own homestead, I might add.”

"Awww, cupcake, don't be like that!" There’s definitely still the ghost of a smile in Danny’s voice and the wicked glint in his eyes is unchanged. "Besides, isn’t that the point or do you want something different today?”

There’s something serious in his tone now and Tony realizes that Danny is actually making sure that Tony is comfortable with what they are doing. It’s rare. It’s tremendous.

“No, I’m good.” Tony keeps his tone playful, takes a can out of the minifridge and pours the beer out.

“Would you mind undressing?” Danny says when Tony brings him the glass. “I want you to be comfortable.”

“I’m always comfortable around you.”

It’s true. Tony smiles, puts his glass on the low table and starts undressing. He doesn’t draw it out, but he doesn’t hurry either. He removes his shoes and socks first, then undoes the shirt buttons on his cuffs and front, but doesn’t remove it. They maintain eye contact throughout.

When Tony's hands drop to his belt buckle, so do Danny’s piercing grey eyes. Now, Tony does slow his movements. With a flick of a thumb, the button on his slacks comes open and Tony pauses. Tilts his head as he undoes the zipper in three, four drawn-out seconds. Danny licks his lips and Tony feels like smiling. His thumbs dip into the waistband, sliding the pants and his briefs slightly lower at the same time - three seconds.

“Tony,” Danny whispers and the need on his face is raw and somehow tender.

Is this real? Tony tells himself to stop thinking about it. Danny is with him for now, the rest doesn’t matter. Biting the inside of his cheek to bring himself into the now, Tony lowers his waistband. He’s mostly hard already, been half-hard from the elevator, and he drops his pants.

Danny draws in air as if he’d forgotten to breathe and Tony suddenly notices that he needs to regulate his own. He lifts his hands to take his shirt off-

“Stop.”

Tony stops moving, breathing, and lets the incredible feeling of satisfaction wash over him.

“Come here,” Danny says in a rough voice.

Without a thought, Tony steps between Danny’s legs and drops to his knees.

Danny’s face does something complicated and in that split second, Tony believes that he can have this. That Danny feels this just as strongly as he does.

But then Danny smiles and though it’s not at all fake, it’s not as real as the confusion Tony thought he’d seen on his face just a second ago.

Danny cups his cheek and draws him into a kiss.


	6. Chapter 6

Clint is doomed. Fucked. In serious trouble; trouble more serious than he’s ever been in his life because this is it. This beautiful man, in and out, is giving himself to Clint as openly as he can and letting Clint cut into him without even a thought of protecting himself.

Tony probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it, but Clint does. He can see Tony potentially falling for him, or rather the image Clint is projecting: Daniel Lorraine, the whore with a heart of gold.

Oh god, he’s scum.

Clint will have to make sure it doesn’t happen… Clint will. Otherwise Clint doesn't know how he could ever make it up to Tony. He won’t be able to.

He kisses Tony, pulls him up into his lap, strokes his skin and can’t stop himself from whispering praise into his ear. Telling the truth; how wonderful Tony is, how amazing, how he deserves all the praise when Tony gives him a placating look of ‘sure, sure, go on’ as if Clint is spouting nonsense.

It’s heartbreaking, but then again... He won’t argue with Tony about it, but he can try to show him. Tony deserves all the praise and… and things that Clint can’t really give him, but he can make him feel good, so he grasps Tony’s cock and tugs on him gently, slowly, then firmly and raising the speed carefully, taking his cue from how Tony's breathing changes and how his hands roam Clint’s body.

“My jacket. Take it off,” Clint gasps when his pants get unbearably tight. “Th-the pants. Now,” he orders and slows his movements on Tony’s cock, eliciting a quiet whine that makes all the progress on his own clothes stall, because Tony’s hands spasm and start shaking. Denying Tony is a thrill in itself and when Clint’s cock is finally freed, he really, really needs to get his mouth on Tony’s.

“God, you are so sweet,” he says after stopping for a breath. “So sweet… Fuck.”

“Yeah… That’s the… idea,” Tony responds shakily between the kisses he bestows on Clint’s gradually uncovered skin, reverently, his beautiful deep blue eyes almost mindless with need, and it’s like learning to breathe again, learning to…

...make love again.

Clint hasn’t done that in…

“Tony,” he says as fervently, “Tony. Tony, Tony…”

...a while.

  
  


Later, Clint slips out of the bed and covers Tony with a blanket. It’s difficult to leave, but he doesn’t let himself think about it. He goes to his room, takes a shower, eats. Puts the TV on and stares at his phone. Reporting to Karimov feels even more distasteful than usual.

His head is empty.

It’s almost midnight; he can probably text in the morning, claiming he fell asleep. But then he’ll send Mehrab to check up on him… Shit.

Clint takes his phone and types:  _ Did what you wanted. The subject is fucked out. Back in my room now. _

His thumb hovers over the ‘send’ button. No. He can’t sound reluctant. 

Clint closes his eyes.

He’s just so tired of himself. Or of being himself. Or maybe not being himself. One of the three probably. Or his life. He's just so fucking tired.

After a little bit he opens his eyes and takes a look at the message. Deletes it and writes another one. 

_ All systems are go. Back in my room. _

He deletes that too. It  might sound like a film quote to most people, but around Aryan, Clint tries to use as little military slang as possible.

_ Signed the contract. Best if he doesn’t see me interact with you for now. Back in my room. _

There. That sounds helpful, right? 

  
  


“We are going to a wedding,” Tony declares the next morning, just before the first panel.

Clint smiles at Tony indulgently because even though he’s still tired as a dong on a stick, seeing Tony’s impish grin still makes his cheek muscles lift into something pleasant.

“Wonderful !” he enthuses. “ Are we crashing one for fun or do you have an invitation?”

“Pfft! I’m Tony Stark! I don’t need an invitation!” Tony declares, but putting his arm around Clint’s shoulders, he goes on in a more regular voice, “I have an invitation. It’s the son of a business associate, nothing important, but I have to make an appearance. It’s in London.”

Clint’s heart skips a beat. “Never been to London before,” he quips agreeably.

London. Civilization. In three days.

God.

Tony grins. “We’ll have to make sure to see the sights then.”

“Naw, no need.” He glances at the presenter setting up on the dais. “I have google earth.”

Tony harrumphs, seemingly entertained. “Am I supposed to compliment you on your tech-savviness? I should just clip you over the head and drag you to ogle the crown jewels in person.”

“Aww, cupcake,” Clint whispers and leans in closer. "I’m quite happy with  _ your _ crown jewels, darling, no need to fuss.”

Tony’s eyes almost flutter close, but to his credit, he manages a straight face. “The wedding is next Wednesday. We leave tomorrow,” he says at the normal volume and somebody shushes him. Tony ignores the man, but Clint makes an apologetic face at him.

Hypocritically though, he steps even closer to Tony and almost touching his ear with his lips says, “And if it’s violence you crave, there’s always spanking.”

Tony shivers.

  
  


Just as the last event closes and Tony and he are getting up to leave the VIP banquet hall, Clint spots the redheaded SHIELD agent coming his way. For a second, his gut swoops but he tells himself she’s not here for him. She can’t be, he’s almost sure. He turns to go, but then the agent is there-

“Mr. Stark.”

Oh, thank god!

“Miss Romanoff?” Tony turns to the woman. “What a pleasant surprise, did Fury have a conniption at me being accommodating? Is that the news you came to share? Because otherwise I really don’t see why you would approach me again?”

“Agent Romanoff, Mr. Stark.” The woman smiles and for some reason Clint feels that it’s a trustworthy smile meant solely for Tony, which is weird. “I just wanted to ask if you could perhaps reconsider the timeline? Surely you could push up your return to the states? Director Fury would really appreciate it.”

“You are a persistent one, aren’t you?”  Tony says, with a sardonic smile. “You should know that I trust you as far as I can throw Fury’s nonexistent eye and that’s just gross, so I would drop it right where I got-”

“And where would you get an eye that doesn’t exist?” Clint interjects, because Tony is preparing to go off on a ridiculous tirade and must be stopped.

Tony opens his mouth, but before he can continue, Agent Romanoff turns to Clint.

“Very astute comment,” she approves, turning the bulk of her heavy-duty charm on Clint. “And I also wanted to give your cute companion my number,” she tells Tony, while looking at Clint.

Her smile is so bright and inviting that momentarily, Clint feels blindsided.

“You have impressive seashell-throwing skills,” she says, and before either of them can react, she flashes them a Sphinx-like smile and leaves.

It is only a second later that Clint realizes that A, she put the piece of paper into his jacket pocket and  _ patted his bum _ , and B, Tony is side-eyeing him.

“Seashell-throwing skills?” Tony wonders out loud. “Is that a euphemism?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Not really. I’ll tell you about that later.”

The story would’ve been a good distraction but they are moving along with a throng of people and everyone is trying to get a word in with the young industrialist that put on a big show just last night, and it’s difficult to talk.

“That was the real reason she came to talk to me, wasn’t it?” Tony says when they finally step off the elevator on Tony’s floor. “To give you her number?”

Clint shrugs indifferently. “Probably.” Then he realizes that not showing an interest in a remarkably beautiful woman or even in a potential business might look suspicious, so he reshapes his mouth into a smug smile and adds, “What can I say? I’m a catch.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Well, you can’t call her now. You just signed a contract with me.”

He doesn’t sound testy; if anything, he sounds neutral. Maybe a touch too neutral even.

“Aww, cupcake, baby,” Clint tries to lighten the mood. “Of course I won’t call her! I’d never! Because look at you!”

He leers at Tony, giving him an obvious once-over. Even though the look of exasperation on Tony’s face is put-on, it’s comforting.

“Right,” Tony says. “Let’s go, heartbreaker.”

To bring them both back to reality, though, Clint takes the business card from his pocket, looks at it for a moment and puts it into his wallet. Tony should be aware that he’s merely getting what he’s buying.

And even that is a honeypot scheme.

  
  


A little later, when the privacy screen in their car is up, Tony says, “You know that you can actually call her, right?”

“What?”

“The redhead.”

Tony’s voice is casual but his face is very serious, so Clint sits up straight and stares at his profile.

“I’m not going to call her,” Clint repeats reassuringly.

Like a moron. As if Tony actually cares. Jesus, Barton. Whatever faces Tony would make at him in bed, at best, he’s infatuated with the image of Danny Lorraine and that’s… He shouldn’t be actively trying to undo the point he’d just made with putting the slip with the phone number into his wallet. Tony shouldn’t care that much. Won’t. Clint mentally nods to himself.

Tony shakes his head and glances at Clint cynically, reaffirming the impression that Tony also thinks that Clint is a moron. Good.

“Sorry about sounding a bit territorial earlier,” Tony says seriously, “We both know what this arrangement is. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“I’m not worried about it,” Clint denies, breathing somewhat more easily. He sounds as if he’s lying to his own ears, but hopefully Tony can’t hear that. “I mean-”

Tony cuts him off. “That’s not the point I’m trying to make. If you read the contract carefully, you’ve realized that it doesn’t actually bind you to anything you don’t want to do.” He’s looking out the window as he says it. “I will pay the consultation fees listed no matter what you do. You can tell me now. I’ll stop the car and you get out with your bags, call her and still get the money I promised you.”

Clint’s mouth goes dry. Tony is… something else. And Clint’s the worst. A sack of donkey dung. He should just drop dead right here. “I wouldn’t…” He clears his throat.

He did read the contract and it did seem to him that it wasn’t that binding for him but he couldn’t have been sure if the lawyerspeak was just so clever that he didn’t see the hook. He just hadn’t cared because he was signing under an alias anyway.

“I wouldn't disrespect a contract like this,” Clint lies. “I know what I signed.”

Of course he can’t leave Tony anyway. Because of Aryan and because he still needs the information about their future operations, something big enough that would get Karimov and his partners, but even if not that… Clint  _ wants  _ to spend every last fucking minute of this blasted self-appointed mission with Tony Stark. The knowledge of how he’s  _ using _ Tony is unbearable - it makes him the worst sort of scum, but it’s also inevitable, so-

“I would never make anyone sleep with me just because I’m paying them,” Tony goes on after a pause. “You know that, right?”

He turns to Clint and his eyes are so earnest, trying to get Clint to believe him no matter what, as if Tony is the human trash here. He’s not. He’s wonderful. Amazing. And Clint shouldn’t even be allowed to breathe the same air as Tony.

There’s just one thing to do really.

“I know, Tony,” Clint says sincerely.

The relieved smile he gets in response, stabs Clint in the heart, but he does what he always does when his heart breaks. He smiles.

  
  


Clint has never traveled under his own name, unless it was as a part of a caravan or hitchhiking across states. That’s why he doesn’t even think twice about giving his ‘made in Tadjik’ US passport to the check-in official.

“Pleasure,” he answers the run-of-the-mill question, turns to Tony and asks, “And you, kind sir?”

“I’m all about pleasure, sugarbun.”

The official smiles neutrally, stamps the passport, and gives it back.

“I’m gonna tell people you are my boyfriend,” Tony says when they step away from the desk.

Clint doesn't even blink, his eyelids are as surprised as he is. “You’re coming out?”

“Oh, I’m already out, actually. But even if I weren’t, what else would I tell them? That I bought myself a boy toy?”

The thought of being introduced as Tony’s boyfriend is… alarming. Wrong. Furrowing his brows, Clint nods. “That’s.. fair. But… Maybe tell them we are not together? Just came as friends? Business partners?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “What are we? Twelve? I’m Tony Stark. I can date whoever I want.”

The dark hopelessness is rolling over Clint’s head like a tsunami, but he blinks it away and tells himself that it won’t matter. Not in the long run.

He shrugs. “What if they find out you’re paying me?”

“It’s just consultation fees. Besides, who’s going to tell them?” Tony sounds dismissive, but then glances at him, adding, “Wait - is there a chance that you are going to be recognized? There might be a tabloid journalism present. Are there people in the US who know you as an escort? Or a dancer?”

The last one makes Clint let out a bark of laughter. “No. I’ve never danced professionally. And also no to the other option. I’ve never worked in this field before leaving the US.”

Even if someone dug up his carnival history and a real name, it would be something of a rumor - a carnie claiming that Tony Stark’s new BF had once been one of them. But there wouldn’t be any pictures other than the official posters where he’s wearing a mask. And that would not matter much to Aryan nor hopefully Tony.

There’s a bit of silence as they walk past the VIP area sofas. Then Tony draws in a breath and instinctively, Clint already knows what’s coming.

“So what have you been-”

“Where is our gate?” Clint interrupts.

“Private planes are this way.” Tony gestures. “Is this your not-so-subtle attempt at changing the subject?”

Clint grins. “I can also do sneak kissing. Bet you I can kiss you twelve times before we board without anyone seeing it!”

“Right. But if we are pretending to be boyfriends, we don’t have to be sneaky about it.”

“Naw, too boring.”

Clint looks around and, quick as lightning, leans to touch his lips to Tony’s ear. Tony’s mouth twitches and Clint’s heart gives a painful flutter.

  
  


Because Clint is a shit bag of scorpions, the moment they arrive at their London hotel room, he ties Tony up, puts a cock ring on him and rides him three times before he lets him come. Tony begs and curses and, in the end, cries, but he doesn’t safeword, so Clint tells himself that he did it because Tony wanted him to. Clint is not a cruel man. Tony enjoyed it. Clint knows he did.

Still, later Clint give Tony a full-body massage, kisses his wrists, and in the morning, he brings Tony breakfast in bed.

“You are the best b- fake boyfriend ever,” Tony says.

Clint ignores the slip, smiles, and kisses him on the nose. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

He gives Tony his best liar smile and goes.

In the bathroom, he locks the door, strips and turns on the water. He steps into the cubicle, slides down the wall, puts his arms on his knees and cries.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two comments before we start:
> 
> * Canonically 616 Tony is an alcoholic, so you'll see some of it here and just a warning - I'm not planning to deal with the issue at all in this story. It's just how it is, unfortunately. I can just say that in my headcanon, he'll come out of it a winner but somewhere a lot later in life. Maybe, it'll never even get as bad as it did in canon.
> 
> * In this chapter, Tony says that sth is un-American, he means it sarcastically as a dig on people who find ludicrous things un-American. I was not trying to make it in any way political. It just felt as if Tony would say something like this. I obviously do not know much about it. So if you disagree with the notion or with the idea that Tony would say something like this, let's just agree to disagree, and go on with the story. I'm not interested in debating any of it. I hope it's not too off-putting. I honestly hope that this is not a big deal for anybody.
> 
> A thank you to the same betas, you know who you are! :) ILY!!!

Clint sees her out of the corner of his eye. Is he going mad? Why would Agent Romanoff pose as a server at a wedding Tony and he are attending? She’s blond this time and the makeup makes her look different, but Clint has a good eye. It’s her.

It’s putting him on edge.

“Dance?” he asks Tony, smiling.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Tony smiles back.

They manage half a circle around the room before Tony speaks.

“We make a good team.”

“Oh?” Clint agrees but he is distracted. If Romanoff wants to make contact, Clint doesn’t want Tony to see.

“You make me look good.”

Clint snorts. “How’s that? I’m pretty sure you’re twice as pretty as I am.”

Romanoff is working the snack table. Well, if she wants to have a good view of the room that is a perfect vantage point. Clint wants to disappear but he also needs news.

“Every time I want to say something sarcastic, you butt in,” Tony says. “You have some weird sense about what drives me nuts.”

Clint smirks. “You do that thing with your eyes. That’s how I know.”

“What thing?”

Tony is staring at him, alert and curious, and his lips twitch now too, and for a short moment, Clint’s head is filled with images of kissing Tony.  _ You make me feel like I matter, _ he wants to say then and that’s another whack-a-mole response, he knows that.

Clint clears his throat and breaks eye contact. “Your eyes twitch like you are on the verge of rolling your eyes, but you’ve been taught better than to act on it.”

Tony rolls his eyes in an exaggerated manner and Clint laughs.

"That’s just for you,” Tony states. “To illustrate. Are you going to punish me later?”

Clint can’t even answer, his head is effectively out of all appropriate responses and his body is trying to move them behind the row of wide pillars to get out of the SHIELD all-seeing eye for a moment, but other dancers are not cooperating.

"The fine line between punishment and reward can get a bit blurry with you,” he says in the end. “But how about this? Tonight - you, me and a blindfold? You can roll your eyes behind it however many times you want, and we’ll if I can make it wet with tears before your toes curl or not.”

There’s a short pause, and when Tony speaks, his voice is distinctly hoarse.

“Gonna tie me up for this?”

“Of course, I will,” Clint replies easily. “See? You are not as difficult to figure out, are you?”

He gives Tony a playful smile, successfully maneuvers them where he wanted, and stops.

“Only for you, it seems,” Tony says breathlessly, letting himself be backed against a wide pillar.

Clint boxes him in by putting one hand next to Tony’s head and leans into him.

“Oh-oh,” Tony sing-songs, “we’re in pub-lic…”

“I can behave if you can.” Clint smirks and leans in a little more, which, incidentally, allows him to also take a peek at the snack table.

Romanoff is serving punch but still looking in Clint’s general direction. Did she just raise her eyebrow at him?

“Is this what you call behaving?” Tony says and justs his hips slightly forward.

Clint’s gaze snaps back to him. “Do you have to be so distracting?” he complains, smiling slightly, and backs away from Tony a little. “I’m trying to figure out the quickest route out of this joint.”

“No you aren’t,” Tony pouts and shifts restlessly. “You’re just teasing me. You’ve been doing that the whole day. If you wanted us out of here, we’d already have left.”

“See? You get me too,” Clint says but regrets it immediately. Strengthening an intimate connection is not what he’s supposed to be doing here. “Is it working?” he adds, lasciviously.

“You should know,” Tony winks at him and slips his palm into Clint’s jacket to caress his waist.

“Behave,” Clint murmurs, taking a step back. “You’re right, I’m teasing. But now it’s time to stop.” He grins.

“But I’m already ha-ard,” Tony whines quietly, looking mournfully at Clint who’s already moving away.

“Don’t you dare,” Clint replies with another grin, and in passing, lets his hand bush criminally close over Tony’s groin. “Behave,” he repeats and winks back.

“God you’re evil,” Tony croaks but follows him onto the dance floor. “I’m going to get you back for this, Lorraine,” he mutters as they start foxtrotting through the other couples.

“You can try,” Clint whispers. “But you love it and you know it.”

“Nope, not true. Hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it.”

Clint laughs. They pass Romanoff and they stop at the drinks table a little bit further away.

“What are you having?” Clint asks, glancing at the snacks table.

“Scotch if they have a good one,” Tony says, standing with his back to all the tables and grabs a champagne flute from the passing waiter.

“I’m not a good judge of scotches,” Clint says drily, “but I’m quite certain it doesn't mix well with what you are already having…” He nods at the flute.

“Oh, that?” Tony waves the flute around. “It’s just a warm-up. Won’t affect me none.”

Right.

Clint turns his sweetest smile to him and says, “I’m gonna grab something from the snack table, you want anything?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “It’s finger food, not gonna affect me either.”

Something goes cold in the pit of Clint’s stomach. “Fear not, I’m not going to tell you not to drink. You’re a grown-ass man, I’m not your keeper,” he states with a finality he wants to take back but can’t. “Just need to munch on something,” he says truthfully. “I can bring something for you too or not. Your choice.”

There’s only a second before Tony replies, all smiles again as if nothing at all happened.

“Hors d’oeuvres and other suspicious-sounding un-american nutriment? Good idea! I’ll come with.”

Internally, Clint sighs, but they go to the table, eat, make small talk with some drunk people. Romanoff and he never make eye contact.

Surprisingly, it’s a lot of fun to spend time with Tony in public. With Aryan, even in an international setting where no one was side-eying Clint, he’d always felt as if there was a noose hanging around his neck, the tail of which he had to be careful not to trip on. With Tony, they joke and laugh even if there doesn’t seem to be a reason for it. At some point, Tony starts pretending to have an eye twitch when someone is being super obnoxious and Clint has a hard time to keep from snickering. He starts giving the most outrageous reasons for needing to whisk Tony away from the conversation and the smiles Tony gives him are almost adoring.

Clint has no idea what his own face looks like, but his chest is getting tighter and tighter and he tells himself it’s because he still hasn’t talked to Romanoff.

For an hour more, Tony keeps to his side, and as a plan B, Clint sweeps Tony off to the dance floor where Clint starts caressing and squeezing Tony’s hand in a subtle, but suggestive manner. Tony’s eyes sparkle and he retaliates by petting Clint’s hair at his nape.

“Careful,” Clint whispers into Tony’s ear and feels his shudder. “People are going to notice.”

“Nah,” Tony says dismissively, “people are morons."

Clint shakes his head. "You don't actually believe that," he counters distractedly.

Humming noncommittally, Tony wets his lips. “Do. Most people are. Even you.”

Clint is still staring at Tony’s lips so his mouth’s running with minimal brainpower and no filter. "Nope.”

“Yes,” Tony says, grinning, “you are.”

“Yes, I am,” Clint agrees with his own, patronizing smile. “That was not what I was disagreeing with. I was simply stating that  _ you  _ don't think that I’m a moron.”

Looking startled, Tony laughs. “You sure about that? You’re definitely not as bright as you think you are.”

Clint tilts his head. “You don't treat me like a moron. It’s rare.”

“It’s only rare because people are  _ morons, _ ” Tony replies. “See? Totally proves my theory. Implying that you are a moron is moronic. Therefore, most people are morons!" he finishes with a haughty flair.

As Clint laughs, Tony goes on more quietly. "Only a few people have managed me in social situations without making me feel bad. That's your talent right there, Lorraine."

The compliment feels real and Clint swallows back an automatic objection. He should make a joke of it, but saying anything feels suddenly impossible.

“Hey,” Tony protests as Clint maneuvers him into a spin and then a back dip.

Tony laughs and Clint repeats the spin into the other direction.

“Making you look good is not hard, Stark. You’re relatively low maintenance, actually. I’ve worked with harder material.”

Suddenly, Tony’s eyes dull. “Well, not many would agree with you.”

He still sounds light, but there’s a cool edge to the glint in his eyes  and Clint’s heart twinges, because apparently Tony does care whether he’s just a job for Clint or not. Stupidly anxious to make Tony feel better, Clint executes half a turn further and stops them behind the same pillar as earlier. Subtly, he crowds Tony’s back to it and stepping a little too close this time, leans in. Their lips touch gently, and Clint takes Tony's wrist, making slow circles on the inside of it with his thumb. Tony’s breath hitches, his mouth opens in a silent moan and  Clint deepens the kiss.

For a short while, the music and the party noises disappear, but then somebody bumps into Clint and he pulls back, plastering a grin on his face. Tony’s foggy eyes flutter open and Clint has to press his hand against Tony’s shoulder to keep him from chasing Clint. Mission accomplished, he tells himself. That’s all that there is. Getting Tony like this, ready for anything, is where he wanted him. That was the plan.

The power feels intoxicating.

He plants a quick kiss on Tony's left temple and tells him, “I want you to get us a car and wait for me upfront.”

Tony’s eyes turn feverish. Looking dazed, he squeezes Clint’s hand once, lets go, and starts moving towards the entrance.

At a sedate pace, Clint walks to the snack table, glances around himself and reaches for a salad in a tiny boat. Lifting it to his mouth, he takes two steps further and stopping next to the female server says, “The food is excellent as always. Have you given my compliments to the chef?”

“Of course, sir. Did it the same day we talked,” Romanoff replies with a polite smile.

“Any problems with my booking? My menu suggestions alright?”

“The chef is deliberating. We have to make sure that all the ingredients on your list are something we can work with.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Clint said more quietly, taking a bite out of something pink and sweet on a stick. “To ask about the list? Or just keep an eye on things?”

“You’ve got our number but you might’ve forgotten to leave yours. We wanted to make sure we can get a hold of you if we need to.”

Stress-eating, Clint consumes another tiny sandwich. “You know what I’m worried about?” he says conversationally. “With foreign food, there might sometimes be bugs. I’m not sure if an exterminator is an option in this case. The produce might suffer.”

“We’ve encountered the same problem a few times, but we have ways to deal with that. I’ll let you know when we come up with something.”

“That would be awesome. Thank you.”

Clint mashes the last of the fingerfood he’s holding into his mouth and starts moving away when Romanoff says, “Will we meet in the US soon or are you planning to return home?”

Clint almost snorts at how it actually stings, but forces himself not to react. “Not sure yet. But I hope I can meet you in the US.” He pauses but unable to hold it back, adds, “That’s where home is.”

Next, Clint finds the hosts and thanks them for the invitation and the excellent party.

“Tony just had an idea for some special handgun or something,” he gives as an explanation. “And you know how geniuses get, right?” He smiles and shrugs apologetically.

Everyone nods and pretends to believe him but they are also smiling indulgently, almost with affection, and Clint thinks that it’s good that Tony’s got friends here, even if he doesn’t necessarily know about it. Clint should make sure to tell him.

  
  


The car is out front and Tony is sitting inside thumbing at his phone. He looks up and smiles as Clint gets in.

“What took you so long?” he grouses but it’s faked and Clint winks.

“Had to grab equipment.”

Tony’s nostrils flare with the sudden intake of air. “Equipment? What in the world could you have taken from a wedding venue that you’d classify as equipment if you have a Hogwarts trunk full of all kinds of stuff already?”

Clint grins and as the car starts moving, he pushes the button to lift the privacy screen. In anticipation, Tony shifts to sit almost facing Clint, his smile hungry.

“Unbutton,” Clint says quietly.

Tony grins and lifts his hand to his collar.

“No. Down there.” Clint glances at Tony’s fly.

Tony startles and his smile wavers, but then it widens and gamely, Tony unbuttons and unzips his fly.

“Lower it a bit,” Clint says, his v oice a pitch scratchier.  “I need access.”

Tony pushes his boxer briefs out of the way and Clint moves closer. He hums contentedly and smirking, takes a thin pale pink ribbon out of his jacket pocket. Tony’s eyebrow shoots up in question but Clint ignores it. Instead, he pulls the ribbon under Tony’s sack, draws the ends up and crossing them behind the shaft brings them to the forefront. He loops the ribbon around the base twice more and then ties a neat bow in front of the shaft.

“Here. For pretties,” he says, patting it. 

By the time he’s finished, Tony’s already half-hard.

  
  


Having arrived into their room they make out for a long while but when Tony tries to get them undressed, Clint grins, takes his hands in his and kisses them.

“Undress me,” he says breathlessly.

For the whole evening, he’s been the boyfriend and the feeling doesn’t seem to be wearing off. Tony undressing him doesn't feel like a game; it feels special and Clint has no idea what to do about it. Should he shake it off or embrace it? 

"Fuck," Tony rasps when he finishes. "How do I feel so helpless while you are the one naked?"

"That's my superpower." Clint grins winningly and wonders whether Tony also thinks about the boyfriend thing.

He can’t ask, it would ruin the mood. Well, Clint can pretend they are role-playing. Clint gropes Tony’s asscheeks and pinches them.

“How much do you like this suit?” he asks.

Tony’s pupils dilate. “What?” 

“Nothing that exciting,” Clint snorts, feeling a little stupid and as if he should now put on a performance of strong-man or something else ridiculous. “Was just thinking of making you come without taking any of it off, how does that sound?”

“Uncomfortable.” Tony thinks a second. “And your ‘equipment’ is a bit tight.”

Clint guffaws.  _ You always make it fun, _ he wants to say.  _ You always make me feel better. _ He swallows it and puts his hand on Tony's belt buckle. “Valid.”

Slowly, Clint unbuckles Tony’s pants and unzips. He smiles and pretends to himself that they are role-playing being boyfriends. Only he’s not actually brave enough to tell Tony that. Bummer. On the upside, at least, Clint feels in control.

  
  


Clint is the worst human scum on earth. Every time he texts a progress report he’s betraying Tony.

He does it twice a day.

Now he also has the second phone that he checks once a day when Tony falls asleep. It bothers him less because betraying Aryan has always been a plan and is the right thing to do, but it still means sneaking around.

It’s the phone he just found in his pocket after a tiny vaguely-female teenager (it was Romanoff) bumped into him near the Jewel House yesterday.

He keeps the phone off and takes it to the bathroom to check it.

The first time he looks at the tiny display, there's a text.

_ Your initial list checked out. Estimate on the full list? _

Initially, Clint's knees almost buckle at the relief but then he realizes that Romanoff has nothing to lose by telling him that the first contact is positive. Whether they consider him an ally or an accomplice, the text would be the same. But Clint understands.

_ I want _

He deletes it and types:  _ I need to talk to the chef directly. _

His hands are deliberately steady when he turns the phone on the next time.

There's a number.

Clint's eyelids flutter and his gut tightens with nerves. He can't have miscalculated- it has to be-

He turns the shower on and dials. The time between the beeping and the distinctive sound of the picking up is a separate reality and he just stands there, not seeing the cream-colored tile he’s staring at.

"This is the chef. Who am I speaking to?"

Coulson. This is Coulson. 

Clint closes his eyes. Up until this moment Clint had no idea how much he'd been afraid that it would be someone else. Someone with less clout, a lot stupider or someone higher on the pecking order. Fury himself. Clint almost smiles at the thought.

"Hello?"

Clint startles into action. "Hello, my name is Carlston and I’m representing Hawkeye Bow-” He made a very brief pause. “-ling Events and I’m happy to discuss the menu with you."

There's a second of silence on the other end and Clint wonders if it's surprise or confusion, but surely Coulson would recognize him?

"It's lovely to hear from you, Mr. Carlston. How have you been?"

He sounds genuine. Clint feels it with his whole being but it’s stupid. Coulson is good at what he does. Of course, he'd try to make a resurfaced rogue agent feel secure. Clint can't fault him for that.

"Good, considering. The vacation has been a blast - one surprise after another really - but I'm ready for it to be over. How does my proposed menu sound?"

"If we can make it happen, the welcome back feast should be spectacular."

That's not what he means, Clint tells himself. Moron. Coulson is just talking about the completion of the case. Taking the arms dealers in. Not… he cuts his train of thought off.

"That’s good to hear," he replies. "Unfortunately, I'm not completely sure of the timeline at the moment."

"Understood. What about your current project? Is that a part of the final list or should that be a part of our feast?"

Tony. He's asking about Tony. Oh god.

Thank God.

"Definitely the feast. I'm trying to keep the two projects from intersecting but not sure how well I can manage."

"That is good news. I'm sure that together we can manage."

Coulson is going to help. He’s going to help Tony. He might just get out of it without a scratch after all. He will. Clint will make sure of that.

He leans his back to the wall and slides down.

"The problem,” he says in a steady voice, “is that I would like to finish the side project before I can resume with the plans for the main feast."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Not sure yet. I'll let you know."

"Understood. I'll be looking forward to your call then."

"Yes. Mutual."

Clint makes himself disconnect. Lowers the phone and closes his eyes. Breathes.

He has help now.

  
  


Because nothing good ever lasts, that night he receives a text from Aryan.

_ Get him to NY, then set up the meeting. _

Fuck.

New York. Why New York? Well, Tony lives there most of the time and Aryan probably has a house there. 

Clint rubs his face with both hands. Manipulating Tony into doing something he might potentially not want is the last thing he wants to do right now. Or ever, really. Potentially, this could even end his arrangement with Tony. How well can Aryan and he pull the charade off? How quickly will Tony's BS radar go off? He is far more intelligent than most people give him credit for and his instincts for pegging people’s sincerity is on par with Clint's.

But on the grand scale… maybe that's what Clint needs? To tank Aryan's immediate plans?

No.

If that happens, the recording will come into play and even if Aryan did the sensible thing and agreed to monetary compensation (which is extremely unlikely), Clint would be so deep in the dog house there would be no telling when, if ever, he would get out of it and SHIELD would think he turned tail. Or worse: they’ll assume he’s an incompetent fuck-up. No, he needs to stall on the seducing Stark front. He needs to…

Clint is not thinking of what it would mean to Tony. Clint just hopes that it never comes to that. He’ll hear about it but there is no reason for anyone to see that recording. Clint will delete it even if he has to break into SHIELD evidence storage.

He tugs at his hair as if he can physically tear the churning despair out of his body; Tony will be fine. SHIELD will get him out.

Ignoring his stupid, aching heart, Clint makes plans. What's a little manipulation after luring someone into bed with the sole purpose of recording it?

Pfft!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are interested in the interim shortie, I have a Nat's POV about her following Tony and Clint to London.  
> Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21915769.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: In this chapter, it occurs to Tony that paying for sex might mean that the other party is heavily coerced, but heads-up - even though I think he might be right in principle, in this case, he has no cause to beat himself up. If Clint/Danny was truly coerced, Tony would have realized it and stopped. Right? I believe it.

"You don't like this place," Tony says two days after the wedding.

"What? No, of course, I do!" Danny lies and takes a huge bite out of his wrap.

"Very funny, loudmouth.” Tony shakes his head, amused. “You think stuffing your mouth will save you from this conversation? That’s your solution?"

"Eshcushe you." Danny goes on chewing. "Eatin sh my solushon to ewrifin."

Tony snorts. "Didn't help to convince me. Try again." Tony leans on the doorframe with his hands crossed on his chest and raises his eyebrows provocatively.

"Twy agah wha’?"

Danny scrunches up his eyebrows and somehow ends up looking more adorable than stupid. Tony feels that it's on purpose but at the same time there's an undercurrent of anxiety that calms Tony. Ty was never anxious when he lied.

Tony grins. "You are a good liar, Lorraine, but you don't fool me."

As if finally realizing that he’s been caught, Danny's hand freezes in the air with the wrap halfway to his mouth, pausing in mid-chew.

It's as amusing as it’s reassuring.

"You don't like this place,” Tony repeats thoughtfully. “Why?" Unbidden, a slight smile is fighting for its rightful place on Tony's face; apparently, when caught out, Danny blushes.

Danny rolls his eyes. Chewing resumed, he flops backward on the divan. "The dam’ shofa wegs ‘ere are mo’ fancy tha' I am,” he says with his mouth still full.

“Your table manners are atrocious,” Tony comments, his heart soaring even more.

“Wha’ taybeh?” Danny looks around pointedly.

Tony laughs. “Case in point, Danny boy. Why aren’t you eating at a table?” He walks further into the lounge and, still staring at the half-clothed display, lowers himself into the armchair across from his lover.

Dubiously, Danny watches the piece of furniture between them and swallows. “That’s not even a table. That’s a wooden doily.”

“A wooden doily?” Tony huffs a laugh.

“Well, look at it! I can’t even put my ears on it, they’ll fall right through!”

"That might be an exaggeration," Tony says, mentally letting the tiny model of Danny's new 'ears' he'd been constructing in his head, land on the elaborately ornate table and yes… those would definitely fall through. “Most of it is covered by a glass though.”

"Not helping your argument, Tony,” Danny quips. “The fancy table aside, this whole set-up here?” he waves around himself to indicate the supposed lunacy. “It's absolutely insane! It’s like living in a museum. Every time I cross the threshold, I feel as if I’ve forgotten to buy a ticket and will be tossed out at any moment.” He takes another bite. Chews. “An’ we ‘ave a butlah fo’ god’ shake!”

“So?” Tony thinks of Jarvis. "I grew up with a butler."

Danny brushes it off as if Tony's opinion was irrelevant. "You! Gew up in a mu-veum!” He swallows most of it down and continues in a more civilized manner. “Of course you’d think it's normal but the man received us at the airport three days ago and has been catering to our every need, all day and night since!”

"Still don't see the problem."

"When does he  _ sleep _ ?" Danny looks exasperated. "Or is he an android? Is there a charging station?”

A chuckle fights out of Tony's chest. “I’m pretty sure he lies down for a nap the moment you start making animal noises."

"Me?"

Danny sits up, smiling like the cat that got… something, and Tony's heart picks up the pace.

"I don't think that was me, Tony  _ boy, _ " Danny purrs.

"I don't think I was the only one," Tony objects weakly. "Anyway, I'm sure he lazes around every time we are not here.”

“You want to tell me that he just lives by our whims?”

“That’s his job. I’m sure he’s well-compensated.”

Danny shakes his head. “Can’t imagine living like this,” he says but something in his demeanor makes it a lie.

Tony can suddenly imagine quite vividly how Danny would have to conform to other people's whims.

Especially with that… Karimov.

He remembers the obvious indifference the man displayed regarding the careful way Danny was moving the last day Tony saw them together. The day that Tony suggested their current arrangement. Karimov didn't look like a man proud of his lover's submission, that’s for sure. And by now, Tony's also sure that Danny doesn't even enjoy subbing, nevermind pain.

“You want to get out of here?" Tony asks, changing the topic.

Danny smiles. "Shopping?" he says, hopefully.

  
  


Danny ends up dragging Tony to a lingerie shop and jokes around while showing him various sets of lacy frilly-nilly panties.

"White? Red? Or dark blue? What's your preference?" he keeps asking Tony.

"On you? Bright blue."

"Please! If I wanted to wear them I'd get purple."

Tony laughs but then Danny stops the shop assistant to ask about sizes. Mouth suddenly dry, Tony listens avidly.

"Don't you think they'll end up being small?" he asks quietly, trying to redirect the development of the events, but not brave enough to add 'for you'.

So Danny just grins toothily.

  
  


In the evening, Tony demonstrates the goodies and Danny cheers him on. Yellow is decidedly not Tony's color and the red pair ends up in his mouth as Danny holds him down and fucks him in missionary. Tony has no idea why he keeps letting him do these things... Except for how fantastic it feels and the look Danny gets in his eyes, as if he thinks that Tony is precious. And how desperately grateful Danny looks every time Tony lets him do what he wants.

Later that night, Danny asks Tony to fuck him for the first time, and stupidly, Tony thinks that it actually means something. 

After the fist mindless haze has worn off but they're still floating on post-sex endorphins, Danny tells him how he misses New York.

"Yeah?" Tony asks. "Yoo uh Noo Yawkeh?"

Danny smiles. "Not originally, but I lived there for a few years."

Tony props himself on his elbow to look down at Danny’s nostalgic face. "Yeah? How long?"

"Nine years."

They talk about their favorite places and it turns out that they both loved the same food truck on the 5th Avenue.

“Feels weird that we might have lived in the same city, walked the same streets, maybe even walked past each other at some point and never noticed.”

“I’m not usually that noticeable,” Danny says, “But I bet I would have noticed you.”

Tony hums noncommittally.

"I was thinking of buying a building in Bed-Stuy after saving-up a bit," Danny muses, with his eyes closed as if imagining something.

"Oh? What for?" Tony cocks his eyebrow. Maybe his money is going to fulfill Danny's dream? "Want to start a business?"

Wait - for a moment Tony panics - what if Danny wants to open a brothel? Bed-Stuy’s one of those places one can, right?

"Not really." Danny frowns. "There was a building owned by a tracksuit mafia, so I thought of buying them out and-"

"Owned by a what?"

"Tracksuit- they were Russians, okay? I've no idea why they still thought that wearing tracksuits was trendy but they did. Always Nike and Adidas and Puma… Anyway, they kept bumping up the rent and people were starting to lose homes and I thought…”

Wait-

“You wanted to take on a Russian mob?”

Danny’s cheeks reddened. “Not like that. I just… Simone had three kids and they were evicting her.”

“That sounds like a story.”

Danny is quiet for a minute. “Yeah.”

“That's why you left the states?”

“Nah.” Danny sits up. “Gonna take a shower.”

Accepting the change of topic, Tony smiles. “Want company?”

“That’s okay, you’re tired.”

“True.”

And it is, but the smile slides off Tony’s face because he knows what to look for now; Danny will take his phone with him. And yeah, Danny doesn't owe Tony any intimate facts like who he’s calling or who his friends are, but it still stings. He’s seen Danny take his phone with him to the bathroom a few times now. He does it when he thinks that Tony is sleeping, and sometimes, Tony wakes up to Danny rustling in his clothes to put it back before returning to bed.

And that's what happens now too: Danny goes to his pile of clothes, picks up his pants, fishes in the pockets-

But it’s not his regular phone. Tony is sure it’s not, he knows phones: for one, it’s smaller, and the buttons on the side are in different places and…

When the door has clicks shut, Tony gets out of bed and finds Danny's jacket. Yes, his iPhone is still there.

Danny has two phones.

Tony drops the phone where he found it and tiptoes back to bed. He doesn't sneak to the bathroom because it's none of his business. Because Danny is not Sunset and hasn't asked about his work at all, because…

Just because.

Maybe he's calling his mom.

Right. That's what one would need a second phone for. A business phone and a personal one? As much as it stings to only have Danny's work number, he understands. But then again, why not get a two-sim device?

When he hears the water cutting off, Tony scrambles for the bed and pretends to sleep.

  
  


After breakfast, Danny again brings up New York and it’s natural the way he does it, but it still sounds off to Tony. Tony’s being paranoid, he knows. Danny isn’t that good of a liar to have nefarious reasons. Danny just wants to go home on his employer’s dime, that’s it.

Tony turns to grin at his lover.

“You want to fly to the Big Apple with me?”

Danny’s answering smile is brilliant and it doesn’t at all feel secretive or triumphant. Danny just seems happy and trying to contain his joy. It's infinitely endearing.

  
  


Danny is not the only one to enjoy being able to finally breathe the New York air.

"Hi, Happy!” Tony says, greeting his chauffeur at the airport. “This is Danny, he's going to be staying with me. Danny, meet Happy. He's my favorite driver."

"Hi, Happy," Danny waves to Happy easily and promptly stumbles over the luggage at his feet.

Tony catches his gaze and they grin at each other.

When they arrive at the mansion, Danny is the first out of the car, getting the bags out. He bangs them against the door frame at the entrance to the lobby and mumbles an apology.

“Did you apologize to the door or the bags?” Tony laughs.

Danny looks indignant. “They both suffered!”

He’s the perfect boyfriend. Or maybe it’s because having a boyfriend is easier than having a girlfriend? As far as Tony’s concerned, dating means a carousel that never stops spinning where he constantly needs to bring the full Tony Stark experience. With Danny, it’s just the best sort of companionship. Maybe it’s because it’s a monetary arrangement? It feels as if Danny is pulling his weight in not getting bored. Like Tony is a part of a couple. Like having fun with Rhodey, just with sex-

No… not exactly like Rhodey.

It’s freeing.

  
  


The first day in New York, they take a bus tour because it sounds like a fun idea at some point. The whole experience is highly entertaining; in hushed whispers they take turns narrating the sights to each other via made-up lewd stories and snicker like school children, and then Danny almost knocks an old lady’s hat off her head and down from the bus’s open deck but miraculously catches it at the last moment.

The next day, they see some of the numerous monuments Tony has never bothered to visit before, and Danny climbs on them to surreptitiously show Tony the best points to rub himself off on. Tony laughs, takes pictures and makes faces at him, and then Danny actually almost gets him off behind one of the monuments.

Jesus Christ.

And no, thank fuck, it isn’t the Saviour’s statue.

After that, they walk around in Central Park and Tony feels as if Danny’s enjoyment is not fake at all. Funnily enough, he trips over stuff, spills his coffee and almost gets bitten by a pet iguana. After that, Danny only tries talking to dogs and some of their owners. Only Danny calls them ‘their hoomans’. Tony just laughs.

At some point, Danny makes friends with a random Puerto-Rican grandma who’s a part of a largish family picnic and ends up playing Frisbee with her grandkids. That morphs into showing them frankly amazing Frisbee tricks.

Danny looks free in a way Tony hasn’t seen before and it makes Tony feel on top of the world too. By the time they are back at the mansion, his cheeks hurt from smiling.

Is this the Danny Lorraine the Escort experience?

God, he hopes not because Tony undoubtedly has little pink hearts instead of pupils in his eyes now and Danny is just… Working?

The thought stings and Tony brushes it aside. It’s not as if he’s never engaged in monetary transactions with people he slept with before. Hell, hiring an escort seems to be a lot more honest than half his girlfriends ever were with him.

That night they have sex without any power games and Tony sees the hearts shine back at him in Danny’s eyes.

  
  


The next morning, Tony gets up early, quietly gets up from the bed and sneaks out. He leaves a black Amex on the desk with a short note for Danny to have fun and then calls for a car that drives him to SI.

“Hi, Pepper!” he gives his best girl his best grin and assumes his most confident strut to walk into his office.

He’s just done with the fourth of his emails when Pepper is in with a bunch of documents and a coffee mug.

“Oh, you’re an angel!” Tony exclaims.

“Yes, the one with a fire sword unless you sign these…” She puts a stack on the desk. “And take a look at these.” She adds a much thicker stack.

Tony sighs, takes a gulp of the dark nectar of gods and sighs the second time in a more pleasurable way.

Pepper smiles at him indulgently. “Well, when you are done with these, will you be taking visitors this afternoon?”

Tony grimaces. “Do I have to?” he says in the most pitiful way, but his luck seems to have run out since the woman’s steely smile does not waver even a bit.

“It would be strongly advisable.”

“Oh well… If it’s  _ advisable _ …” he says and smiles in the most disarming way, although he knows that the battle is already lost. Unless he wants to risk seeing Danny before he’s ready.

Tony works through the morning, gets a text from Danny in the afternoon to which he replies with,  ‘Everything is good. Sry, I’m neck-deep in stuff, see you in the evening’, and then orders pizza for the entire R&D department. When it arrives, he joins the team in the lab and buries himself in work.

_ Coward, _ a voice whispers in his head, but Tony ignores it, soon forgetting himself in everything new, interesting and tedious.

There’re a lot of projects that the fellow engineers want to share with him, but Tony goes through all of that rather quickly because most people do like going home for dinner.

Was it a stupid thing to do? Sending Danny out alone with his black card? Everybody needs some time to themselves, right?

_ Every time I think we are getting closer, you send me to a spa. _

Shut up, Random Faceless Past Girlfriend.

He might be wrong about Danny. Maybe Tony is not that interested really because it's just sex. And if it wasn't, it's not as if Danny really likes Tony back.

Only it actually feels as if he does.

Fuck.

Or maybe Tony is just making it all up; maybe Danny doesn’t like him at all, maybe he’s just so good at what he does. Maybe Danny has an uncanny skill to make people feel as if they are far more happy than the groom at the wedding they are attending? Or maybe Danny is so good at his job because he really enjoys it. The job itself, not so much being with Tony.

That makes sense.

Tony remembers Aryan Karimov and shudders. Anything would be better than that creep, right? Maybe that is why Danny send so much more happy now? Because he's free of that sadistic bastard?

Tony glances at another screen and tweaks an image on it but can’t really concentrate.

Fuck Karimov.

Fuck anyone who’s ever used Danny like this.

Fuck Tony.

Fuck...

Just fuck!

At that moment, the intercom comes to life.

_ ‘This is the security from the front desk. Is Mr. Stark there?’ _

Tony contemplates lying but what the hell. It’s late, almost eight; maybe Danny’s come to surprise him? Maybe it’ll turn into something sexy and then Tony won't have to think about it anymore?

_ ‘There’s an Agent Romanoff to see you, says it’s urgent.’ _

What. The. Hell.

“Tell her we’ve got a meeting scheduled in a week. I’m busy.”

“Yes, si-”

“It’s about Aryan Karimov,” Romanoff’s voice breaks in.

A chill runs down Tony’s spine. “Romanoff?”

“Can I come up?” the agent asks.

Tony looks around the empty lab. “Sure. Security, let the agent up.”

  
  


“I’m glad to see that you’ve been paying attention, Mr. Stark,” is the first thing the woman says when she comes in. “We weren’t sure if you knew who Karimov was.”

“I am not entirely sure why I should know, though.”

“You’re fucking his boy toy.”

“Is that what Danny is?”

“You don’t really believe it’s his real name, do you?”

Tony stares at her coldly. “What’s this about really? So Karimov used to pay him. Now I do. Is there a problem? Because the contract we have is not illegal in any way and you can’t prove otherwise,” he states.

A dark, indignant fury is starting to boil in his gut - he’s not going to let SHIELD tell him that what Danny and he have is wrong, because even if it is, it’s not their place to judge. But Romanoff surprises him.

“We are not trying to do that,” she says. “We have cause to assume that Karimov has targeted you.”

“Because of Lorraine?” he uses the man’s last, although not real, name. “Because employing him was my idea.” It was. Tony is sure of it.

Romanoff’s face turns subtly sympathetic. “That just shows how good he is.” She pauses. “Unfortunately, his mere presence is not the reason we know what has happened. We are sure that Karimov has targeted you because we have an inside source that claims it is actually the case. Karimov is trying to make friends with you with the goal of convincing you to sell them weapons off the books and he’s come to the US with that goal in mind. He just landed in the United States less than an hour ago.”

Tony shakes his head, not comprehending. “And why would he think that would work?”

“We thought you might be able to tell us.”

Tony stares at her.

“Whatever leverage he thinks he has over you,” Romanoff says, “SHIELD is asking you to play along.”

“I’m not interested in your machinations.” This must be a lie. This must all be a horrible mistake. They don’t even talk about work. If Danny’s involved, he doesn’t know, right?

“Understandable.” She nods. “However, we are asking you to seriously think about it, because at this point, if you don’t, our undercover agent will lose any advantage he’s managed to gain and the whole operation might fall through.”

Tony opens his mouth to tell her how much he cares but she interrupts him.

“If you agree, Mr. Stark, we not only have a good chance to put away at least two different Middle-Eastern illegal arms dealing groups, but also close down the main human trafficking routes in the whole area. You’d be helping us to shut it all down and put away more than a few very, very bad men.”

The argument is compelling, but Tony hesitates to answer. So… Karimov is bad enough to have triggered SHIELD’s interest. And they have a man inside-

“What about Lorraine?” he can’t help but ask. Wait, what if Danny-

“For now, we want to keep him in the dark about your involvement, Mr. Stark. He’s still officially Karimov’s PA, so there’s a chance that he might be compromised. We need to check where his loyalties really lie. He might have a cut in the operations.”

Tony takes a deep breath. No. Danny isn’t… His every instinct says no…

But Tony doesn’t know.

“Are you sure…” he starts, but suddenly it’s too stuffy in the room and Tony needs to take a deep breath.

Then there’s a small hand on his forearm, somehow steadying him with a light touch.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Agent Romanoff says quietly. “We are absolutely positive that Lorraine has been solicited to ensnare you. I’m very sorry, Mr. Stark.”

She sounds sincere in her sympathy but that is what hurts the most. He’s not a damsel in distress. He’s not in distress, dammit.

“How exactly do you know that?” Tony can’t help but grit out.

Romanoff is quiet for a bit.

"To be fair,” she says, “we have cause to think that when it comes to that, Lorraine will side with us in the end, but unfortunately, we can't operate under this assumption. That is why you can't let him know that you know about his ongoing relationship with Karimov. I know that it might be difficult, so if you can’t do that, we might try to come up with an alternative solution. Maybe arrest him immediately and put pressure on-”

_ Ongoing relationship with Karimov. Ongoing relationship... _

The phrase keeps hammering in his head. He knows that it was meant professionally, but Tony is also sure that fucking Karimov has been part of his duties which means… ongoing...

“Mr. Stark?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Tony can’t imagine that the regular scare tactics will work on Danny, but even if they do… “It would put your operation at serious risk.”

Romanoff inclines her head in agreement and Tony doesn’t feel like nodding back. He just has to pretend that everything is alright. Romanoff will not see more than she already has and Da- Lorraine will not find out that he has the power to hurt him. Oh, fucking god, who is he even kidding?

Regardless, Tony will keep on laughing and smiling and letting the bastard touch him while knowing that it’s all a lie, a betrayal.

He’s got two phones. That was a clue, right?

Two phones. Two faces. Two lovers?

“You’re going to help us then?”

He wants a drink. "Sure. No problem." He was born to smile while his heart is breaking. No biggie.

Romanoff tries to catch his eye but Tony is ignoring her, choosing to continue assembling the hardware as if she’s not there.

“Are you absolutely sure?” she asks. “Because he can’t suspect anything. We can't let anything get back to Karimov or the mission is a bust and at best, they flee the country, but at worst, people start turning up dead."

“Starting with your undercover agent?” Tony says, not really asking.

“Possibly.”

Tony straightens, turns to her and says, “Then I can do it.”

She stares at him for a long moment, then nods.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark. You’re doing the right thing.”

  
  


He doesn’t let himself fall apart before she leaves.

So it’s all been a lie? The adorable drunken display with the key card that he was trying to use on the wrong - not so accidentally Tony’s - floor, the way he’d fumbled with it, flirted and then pretended not to have noticed that he had, the way he had looked at Tony, the way his hips had propositioned him just before he’d pretended to have no idea that anything suggestive had been going on.

Yes. It was all a lie.

Starting with the first contact at the bar where he’d engaged not him, but his potential date. God, Danny is good! So fucking good: hook, line and sinker. And Tony had sunk. Deep.

Suddenly he remembers Danny's fading bruises he'd seen when they'd slept together the second time, after his proposal. If Karimov finds out that Danny has been made, some bodily injuries will probably be the least of his problems, Tony thinks viciously.

Shame floods him. However poorly Danny has treated Tony, he’s not enough of a sadist to wish Karimov's wrath on him.

Why hadn't it ever occurred to Tony-

His hands shaking, Tony finds the card and calls Romanoff.

"How sure are you that Lorraine is working for Karimov of his own free will?"

There’s a short pause. "We don't know how exactly Lorraine came to be employed by the family."

Tony's insides tremble at the revelation. Danny doesn't really care about Tony, fine. But he might not have got a choice in this either. His actions might have been motivated by fear, not greed. Maybe he never even wanted to sleep with Karimov- But then... he probably never chose to sleep with Tony either…

At that thought, Tony feels sick.

"Whatever his situation,” Romanoff continues after a short pause, “we need proof that he's with us before we can assume his cooperation. And if you risked everything by trusting in him, he might unintentionally give the game away. Do. Not. Tell him. It's not safe for either of you."

"What? What are you even saying? That he's brainwashed? Or bugged somehow…?"

His two phones are playing on Tony's mind again - that makes sense; if Danny knew that his phone wasn’t secure but he couldn’t get rid of it, it would be smart to get himself the second one if-

Danny is in trouble and Tony is going to get him out of it even if he has to deceive him to do that.

“That’s not what I am saying, Mr. Stark. I’m just saying that you shouldn’t trust Lorainne blindly. So we need your A-game for this, Mr. Stark.”

Without a reply, Tony hangs up and stares at the disassembled rifle he has in front of him.

Oh god.

_ Danny.  _ Oh god.

Tony’s instincts were right the first time. That day he observed Danny trailing behind Karimov, bravely pretending that he was not in any pain, that he was cheerful and that everything was great; the way he was acting on the balcony; the astonishment mixed with genuine relief at hearing Tony’s proposal. Tony had thought it was about easier employment, financial relief, but it might have been about succeeding in a mission, the failure of which would have resulted in severe punishment.

Oh god.

Tony might not have known about it but unwittingly, he’d probably still participated in a rape.

Tony wants to recoil, to hide from the truth of it, but by now it is blatantly clear that he has slept with a man whose free will was most certainly compromised. His consent coerced.

But he did consent, Tony reminded himself.

Seemed to have consented. How much had…? No. Danny is not that much of an actor. Not all the pleasure was faked; maybe even not most of it, but... Even if he ended up liking what they did, he would probably have agreed to anything anyway.

Fuck. Tony was the worst sort. Scum.

_ That _ was why one didn’t buy sex. That was why. How was he ever to know the reasons? How was any kind of money exchange not an act of coercion? 

Jesus Fucking Christ. He’s been so stupid.

Even if Tony had been just his ticket back to the States… Danny’s joy, so poorly hidden, seems a lot more tragic now that Tony knows… God. Without Tony, he’d most likely wouldn’t have been… Shit.

Suddenly, Tony remembers how Danny had said that he’d forgotten his passport and that he had to go get it even though all the rest of his stuff was already in Tony’s car. Oh god, Karimov must have had his documents.

His knees weak, Tony sits on a random chair and it rolls a little way backward.

What if Danny also doesn’t have access to the account number he’d provided? It’s a Tajik bank, after all. Tony is so fucking stupid.

His phone beeps.

>Hey, cupcake ;)

>Still at work?

>I’ve been missing you, you comin to warm the bed sheets for me? ;)

No, Tony thinks. Not tonight. I don't have my A-game tonight.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an unhappy chapter and I want to get it out of the way. I'm sorry, but it had to be done before we can move on. :/
> 
> Also - AvengersNewB helped me with how Aryan might speak English. TY!! <3

The text arrives just an hour after Clint finds the AmEx. There’s a hotel name, room number and a word ‘now’. The hotel is, of course, within a walking distance. Shit. Well, at least Tony’s note told him to have a day for himself, so he’s not expecting Clint to be at the Mansion even if he gets back early.

Clint gets dressed and arrives in twenty minutes.

“How long it took,” is the first thing Aryan tells him as he steps into the room.

“Came as fast as I could.” Clint hates that it’s true. His temperamentally lucky stars have also dictated that Mehrab is not there, nor are any of the other goons. Thank fuck.

As often enough, Aryan doesn’t acknowledge his answer. “Come here,” he just says, crowds him into the wall, and smashes their lips together. “Missed doing this,” he mumbles hoarsely, while putting his hands all over Clint’s body.

Out of habit, Clint lets it happen, but when his belt buckle is being opened, he pushes the man away.

Aryan stills. His brows bunch angrily and Clint swallows nervously.

“I’m contractually forbidden to have sexual relations outside of the arrangement,” he reminds Aryan, trying his best to sound regretful. This feels like cheating, but it’s not something he can tell the other man. If he plays this right, Aryan might manage to control his temper.

“He will not find out,” Aryan counters, unbuckles Clint’s pants and reaches inside. “He work you good? Dick tired?”

Clint tries remaining carefully neutral.

“If you fuck me, he’ll know.” He looks down and keeps still, because that’s how Aryan prefers it. “He hasn’t fucked me in more than a day and if he wants to tonight, he’ll notice it’s too loose.”

Aryan’s exhale is derisive. “More than a day? He tired of you?”

“No, he just likes other stuff.”

Aryan pulls back. “He lets you fuck him?” he asks, anger replaced by surprise, thankfully.

Clint nods. “Among other things.”

Grimacing in distaste, Aryan mumbles ‘fairy’ under his breath. He steps back and nods decisively. “Good. Undress and lie on the bed. I will fuck your thighs.”

For a few seconds, Clint tries to think of any reason why Aryan can’t, but he doubts that the ethics in regards to respecting a contract would sway him. Nor would he believe that Clint really cares about that. Well, it’s not as if Aryan is completely repulsive and going by the glint in his eyes, he clearly needs this. Clint shrugs. Tony would only see it as a breach of contract anyway.

“You can’t leave any marks,” Clint ends up saying.

Aryan scowls. “I know. Marks after.”

God, I hope not, Clint thinks tiredly.

  
  


After Aryan has gotten off, Clint goes out to eat. At the hotel, he makes some online payments, watches TV, and makes a couple of more payments. Having AmEx is actually fun. At around five, he still hasn't heard from Tony so he sends texts. Tony texts back that he’s got work.

It could be true, Clint doesn't know. For over a week now, Tony and he have been living in each other's pockets and Clint has no reason to believe otherwise, so he tells himself that that's what it is. Work. When he wakes the next morning, Tony is asleep on their sofa and Clint leans down to wake him with a kiss.

Tony’s breath reeks of alcohol and with a jolt, Clint pulls away. He decides to let Tony sleep.

Around noon, Tony wakes up in a crabby mood; Clint figures it’s probably because of the hangover. He purposely doesn't look any further despite how the snippy behavior carries on into the early evening. 

"You really are the tolerant sort, aren’t you?" Tony asks snidely at some point. 

Clint isn't. He hates when people drink and then can't control their tempers. He's done with tolerating that. But right now he is in no position to do anything about it, so he just ignores Tony. If it were a real relationship Clint would give Tony so much shit about it— 

But it's not a real relationship, it never will be one, so what does it matter that Tony sometimes drinks too much or how it makes Clint want to crawl into the nearest vent and sit there for hours?

  
  


They 'stumble' upon Aryan the next day at Le Bernardin. They’ve just entered and Aryan is there, waiting to be escorted to his table.

"Oh, Daniel!" he exclaims in a friendly tone, the same one he uses when he speaks to his family, and incidentally, also to people he’s planning to kill.

"Aryan," Clint greets him back. "Tony, look who I've found!" Grab his tie, a kick to the solar plexus, turn his shoulder, put both his hands on Aryan’s head and twist hard. Simple. Quick.

Also nauseating.

"I don't think you two have been formally introduced? Tony, this is Aryan Karimov, my former employer. Aryan, this is Tony Stark, you know who he is." He grins at them both as if he’s happy to introduce them. His gut is roiling.

"Tony, a pleasure."

They all smile. Tony returns the handshake.

"Mutual." Tony's smile is somewhat plastic despite him not being entirely sober, but Clint doesn't think anyone else notices.

Clint is a werewolf on a leash; ready to turn at the first glimpse of the moon. But he's still smiling. There’s some small-talk and Clint translates it in his head:

I don't really care, but what are you doing in New York, Tony asks.

I'm just so important, Aryan assures him, ignoring the question. I have lots of business on this part of the planet. And I'm definitely not blackmailing any of my business partners. Not at all. You?

Me? Tony replies, grinning madly. I'm drinking and fucking your whore. Except no, I'm not, because I can't be bothered with him now that I've started drinking.

Oh that's good you are enjoying yourself, Aryan says. Don't worry about the whore, it's not going to complain. I can give you another one if you get tired of this one. 

Another one? Is it pretty? Nevermind, I remembered that I'm doing the drink fast and strike blind right now, so maybe later?

Anytime. What about doing business with me? I won't blackmail you if you agree.

What business? I didn't hear what you said but I'm not sorry.

"You want to go golfing?" Tony asks, turning to Clint. "Aryan's going. I'm not sure I want to though. I mean… it’s golf. What's so great about it? No offense, Aryan."

He sounds offensive as shit. Fuck, Clint has to save this, but he has no idea how.

"How about horse riding?" he blurts idiotically.

Aryan, however, just runs with it. “I’ve played Buzkashi much when I was younger,” he says. “It’s like polo but... More active?”

He looks at Clint expecting him to back the idea up. Clint’s lips are still stretched, but Tony is nowhere near being so drunk as to not think the whole forced cheer at the possible joint outing is at least extremely weird.

“Well,” Clint says. “It does involve a goat carcass.” Aw, no, mouth. None of them is drunk enough for this.

Tony, however, doesn’t even blink. “Excellent!” He claps his hands together. “I love polo! I think I can scurry up a team for this Saturday, how about that?” He doesn’t even wait for a sign of acquiescence as if used to kowtowing. Has he pegged Aryan as someone who would? “Three players a team, no dead goats? Capiche?”

“Polo? Saturday? Yes, that is acceptable,” Aryan says, and wants to go on, but it’s like Tony isn’t even listening.

“Great!” Tony says and flashes a smile. “My people will let your people know,” he adds.

Presumptuously, as only an inebriated Tony Stark can, he doesn't wait for the Maitre and walks straight on towards what Clint can only assume is his usual table.

“You okay?” Clint asks quietly as they sit down.

“Never better!” Tony doesn’t lower his voice.

What it sounds like is ‘I don’t care’ and ‘go to hell’ simultaneously, and it awakens some grim, dark satisfaction inside Clint. It also makes his bow fingers twitch with anger and he has to tighten and relax them consciously.

When the waitstaff arrives, Tony first orders the bottle and then hands the main menu back to the server.

“Bring me whatever,” he says breezily.

His jaw set, Clint doesn’t touch his glass.

  
  


Expect anything to do with Tony Stark to turn into a production. In three days, he not only assembles two teams with three more players, but also manages to get them all uniforms (red and gold for Tony’s and green and grey for Aryans). And somehow around fifty people suddenly appear on the stands all in suits and fancy bonnets, cheering with (surprisingly) for both teams.

“Who chose the colors for the shirts?” Clint asks, grinning.

In reply, Tony just smirks and rides off to talk to one of the groundskeepers.

“At least  _ you _ love me, right, Freya?” Clint leans down to pat the horse’s neck.

“Good girl!” he croons quietly to his four-legged partner.

How did Tony even get trained polo ponies for him and Aryan on such short notice, Clint will never know. Are there special polo stables nearby? Both of Clint’s are beautiful animals and full-sized, not actually ponies.

“Words are dumb anyway, right?” he asks Freya, and kisses her on the cheek.

In the last four days, Tony hasn't talked that much with Clint. Most of the time, Tony is drunk and there has been no sex. The only reason Clint hasn’t asked if he should take his stuff and go, is that Aryan would have him skinned; he has to hang on and prolong the torture, but he knows he’s not welcome. Why Tony hasn't thrown him out is anybody's guess.

Sitting astride a horse feels familiar even though it has been years. His muscles are not used to it anymore, but it’s still not as foreign as he expected it to be. When Tony asked him if he rode, Clint had momentarily forgotten himself and in stupid relief of actually being spoken to, said yes. Tony hadn't wanted to know how a self-proclaimed city boy would have learned such a skill, but trying to back out had only resulted in being set down in front of a computer to read about the rules of the game. So maybe that's why Clint is still here - Tony wants to see Clint be bad at riding? Though, why would he even care?

So now, Clint is staring at Tony, strutting around on a horse he actually owned, looking up at him and smirking. His cheeks are slightly flushed with exertion or fresh air, his eyes are sparkling and Clint’s breath hitches. It’s more attention than Tony has paid him in days and he’s not used to it. Maybe Tony would want to fuck him tonight? Clint cringes at his own pathetic thoughts. He doesn’t deserve Tony’s attention anyway; never has. And going by the number of words Tony has thrown his way recently, it seems that Tony had somehow figured it out too.

That has always been the plan though. For Tony to not get attached.

The plan.

Fuck.

Reflexively, Clint’s right hand tightens around his nonexistent bow and he has to relax his fingers again.

He looks at Aryan. The Tajik carries himself like a warrior and looks decidedly majestic on his steed. Clint  _ hates _ him.

The game, however, is fun and Clint gets carried away. He’s supposed to play the second position but quickly, Tony and Carol (an old schoolmate, apparently) clock on that he’s by far the most accurate with swinging his mallet and he ends up playing like a position 3 would. Lindsey, his second horse is a dream, and Clint wants to take her home.

Aryan looks pissed after the second chukka and he’s getting angrier by the second. He’s an excellent rider but hitting the tiny ball with a mallet is very different from tugging a goat carcass, so it’s understandable why his game strategy turns out to be ‘body-checking’ and riding his opponents off.

Tony seems to take it personally. Shit. The chances of the two doing any sort of business together are thinner now than before the two even met. If things weren’t so tense, Clint would laugh himself off the saddle.

As they dismount after the game, Aryan is muttering obscenities under his nose.

“Good game!” Tony says jovially and extends Aryan a hand.

Despite it being clear that Tony is secretly gloating, Aryan visibly, at least for Clint, pulls himself together, and shakes his hand.

“Same.” He smiles less coldly than Clint would have expected of him. “One day, we play Buzkashi together, but maybe it’s too violent for your... western sensibilities.”

Tony frowns as if he’s actually thinking about it. “I think there’s a civilized version played in Ohio? With a fleece ball? Can’t wield a proper weapon to save their lives, those inland rats.” He swings his mallet and almost hits Aryan.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Tony says, laughing.

Leaning slightly away, Aryan’s eyebrows rise politely. “You don't seem to be that good at it yourself, Tony.” He grins, and he’s much better at sincerity than Tony. “What you think? A rematch without mallets and a bigger ball?

Pursing his lips, Tony seems to be giving it a thought. “Not sure our four-legged players would understand.” He shrugged. “Raincheck?”

“Of course,” Aryan replies. He doesn’t let Tony step away without a rejoinder, though. “How about I guest you to a Turkish sauna as thank you?”

That’s a clever play. If anything, any decent person would find it hard to reject such an offer but Tony is not most people. He’s offered all sorts of things all the time and he-

“Sure, I’m free next Thursday.”

Jesus.

Throughout the conversation, neither of the men glances Clint’s way as if he’s totally insignificant, and yeah, fair, but… Clint wants to throttle Tony. What’s happened to his BS radar? Why is he being like this? Is this the alcohol talking? And why di he start drinking anyway?

“Thursday then,” Aryan repeats, smiling.

The fucker actually smiles and even though it’s not a nice smile and Tony returns one that is just as fake, they still part on polite terms and Clint is at a loss.

What the actual fuck?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've touched up the short story I posted a while ago that is Nat's POV about the time Clint and Tony left for London. If you've already seen the link a chapter or two back (or just read it before), ignore it. It also doesn't really change anything or add a lot. I just love Nat an wanted to write it.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/21915769

Back at the mansion, Tony pours himself two fingers of scotch, then decides to give up the pretense and adds more than the same amount.

“Come here,” he tells Danny, just to see if he obeys.

He does. Tony doesn't look at Danny; doesn’t want to look at Danny. Not now that he _ knows _ but… What’s the difference between then and now, really? They’ve already slept plenty together, Danny clearly likes it. He probably knows that Tony won’t throw him out if he refuses, right?

He might not.

Danny is behind his shoulder, standing silently for a beat and then-

“Tony,” he says quietly, uncertain, with a hint of hope as if he’s a lover spurned.

Only for a moment, Tony’s heart soars, but Tony tells it to fuck off. Because, clearly, that has to be an act. Tony brings the tumbler to his mouth and takes a large gulp.

“I won’t throw you out if you refuse,” he says, because he’s probably more drunk than he thought, “but I’d really appreciate it if you tied me up and fucked me tonight.”

Danny’s breath hitches. Well, at least, Tony can turn him on. That’s got to be real.

“Did you notice how Karimov was looking at you today?” Tony continues, ignoring the fingers hovering over his shoulder.

The fingers disappear and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Danny start shaking his head, then shrug.

“Like dirt?”

Tony hums. “Yeah, maybe,” he has to agree. Takes another gulp. “But also like he thinks he owns you.”

That  _ bastard. _

There’s a strange tension in the air now and Tony can’t entirely put his finger on what it’s about for Danny exactly, but in any case, he fails to respond quickly enough, so Tony goes on.

“He was also looking at me as if I stole you and he’s planning to make me pay.”

“What?” Danny sounds rattled. He steps closer, finally puts his palm on Tony’s shoulder, but pulls it back next moment. “Fuck him!” he starts vehemently. “I won't— I mean… he can’t! He can’t do anything. You know that right? What did he say to you?” He pauses as if to think but doesn’t allow room for an answer. “You know what? I don’t care - we're not meeting him this Thursday. I'll just… I'll take care of it, Tony.”

Danny's fingers are white around the back of the chair and he’s staring into a distance with unseeing eyes as if racking his brain for a solution he couldn't see.

Huh. Maybe he does care a little. Tony puts his hand on Danny's and strokes the knuckles soothingly. Danny startles and looks back at him.

“You don’t have to protect me from him, Danny,” Tony says, “I’m a big boy.”

Danny is staring down at their joined hands. “You sure about that?”

There’s an undercurrent of darkness in Danny’s voice that Tony only rarely hears. It only comes out at night, when Tony is deep in and won’t say no to anything Danny offers, but even then, the darkness is always interpreted as strength and warmth in his brain. Protection: real, solid. Genuine.

Tony shakes it off.

“I‘m sure,” Tony says lightly, finishes off the tumbler and raises his gaze. “So how about it, gorgeous, you gonna fuck me or what?”

The heat in Danny’s eyes is scorching, his face earnest, and stupidly, Tony tries to see a spark of something in his face that  _ can't _ be there. Isn’t.

“Take me to bed, gorgeous.” Tony closes his eyes. “Make me forget.”

  
  


After that, their sex life resumes, even though it is now more laconic and careful. Almost… rehearsed. It’s as if Danny is playing a role; hiding behind his actions until he can’t. For the first time ever, Tony feels like he’s fucking a whore.

This is unbearable, but Tony can’t stop either. Whether they get Aryan or not, whether Danny goes behind bars or not, he’s not going back to that cold, cruel man, Tony will make sure of it.

Despite the knowledge that Danny doesn’t, can't like Karimov, it’s not at all obvious when they socialize. Thursday is there and in the front room of the Turkish bath they stand side by side, talking. Tony has stepped away to take a phone call, but out of the corner of his eyes he can see Danny laughing with his former (current?) lover. He's smiling as easily as breathing and the warm glint in Karimov’s eyes is not as possessive as the last time they met. They look more like exes on good terms than a whore and his john, and for some unfathomable reason, that hurts.

Tony puts his phone into his pocket and rejoins the two men.

“Sorry about that,” he says carelessly and the change in the Tajik is imperceptible but definitely there: any ephemerally small amount of sincere warmth that seemed to be present just a moment ago is gone, and Karimov is once again friendly in his singularly creepy manner.

“No matter, my friend," Karimov says. "Shall we go?” he suggests, gesturing in a wide arc as middle-eastern men often do.

Tony goes and Karimov follows him, embracing his shoulders like an old friend would. Tony manages not to grit his teeth. They get a private room to undress and it’s ridiculous, the way Tony feels as if he were back in high school.

Lockers and naked men pretending not to ogle or compare. Or rather, Karimov and Tony are pretending. Danny is unselfconscious and physically comfortable in his skin. He’s also been intimate with both Tony and Karimov, so he just undresses, grins at them and is first to the steam room, leaving Tony alone with the Tajik.

They don’t talk.

Tony would like to say that he’s prettier than Karimov, but the Tajik looks mature in the best way; he is probably twice his age, but aged well. He looks more compact, Tony is boyish in comparison. Karimov’s muscles are defined and look more powerful by his self-assured demeanor, and that’s what people like, right?

They walk out into the first steam room together and Tony smiles at the attendant assigned to him. The young man clearly likes what he sees and why is Tony even comparing? Karimov is a sadistic fuck and Danny knows that. This is not a competition - no looks or money is going to matter when SHIELD turns up to arrest people. But who will Danny side with, Tony is unsure.

They don’t talk much while the masseurs are there but Tony still manages to joke about Danny’s biceps and his own butt. Karimov replies gamely but he’s getting angry, Tony can tell. Tony should leave it well enough alone, but he can’t; when getting up to move on, he pats Danny’s butt and winks at the Tajik over Danny’s shoulder. The man ignores it. Apparently, he’s got a much better grip on his temper today than at the polo game and Tony is not sure if it’s because he’s in a more familiar setting or is it because he’s biding his time, maybe even preparing to make his move.

Yes. It’s strange, but suddenly, Tony is sure that Aryan has decided to up his game. A small ball of anxiety forms in his gut, but he takes a deep breath, smiles, and makes small talk. Flirts with Danny and sees how Aryan gets slowly more and more wound up.

That feels good.

It is after the procedures are over and they are lounging on the sofas with drinks in hand that Karimov starts buttering Tony up. Tony's been on the receiving end of many such talks, and this is a good one. No substance, but the man is good at it nevertheless.

The strange part is that while the Karimov Group has got nothing to offer SI and Aryan clearly knows it, he still seems to expect success. When Karimov starts hinting at the under the table sales and the numbers, Tony thinks it would be in character for him to cut the man off.

“Why are you even telling me this?” Tony wonders leisurely, pretending not to understand the importance of this conversation. The tiny ball of anxiety in his gut starts growing and tries to crawl up Tony's spine to take over his body. He pushes it down. “Surely you know that after all you’ve told me, I could just sick the CIA or even SHIELD on you?”

Aryan’s smile is cold. “You don’t want to do that.”

Here it comes. The stick after no carrot. “Oh? And why is that? You can’t seriously think that I would even open negotiations for this kind of offer…?”

Tony trails off because the Tajik lifts himself onto his elbows and pointedly, looks at Danny, lying on the other side of Tony. His eyes trail over his body as lasciviously as Tony’s ever seen him.

Tony frowns.

“Danny?” he asks, his throat dry.

Idly staring into the distance, Danny brings his cocktail to his lips and shifts his hips semi-suggestively. “Wouldn’t be the first time for you to star in an adult film, would it, Tony?” 

Momentarily, Tony goes cold all over. Numb. He blinks, with an effort, lifts his lips for a smile and turns back to the businessman as if still not comprehending what was happening. He does.

"Do you need me to go on, Tony?" Aryan asks.

"No, I’ve got the picture, thank you," Tony says. A-game. This is the moment for his A-game. He needs to stay focused. Tony quenches the thought of how much of a fool he’s been again, and sitting up, turns his back to both men. “Call my office and set up a meeting,” he throws over his shoulder.

Tony gets up to leave but Karimov’s voice stops him.

"Take Danny with you. He have flash drive in his jacket pocket. Danny, be a good boy, give it to your friend Tony, understand?"

“Sure thing, Aryan.”

Ignoring them both, Tony walks toward the changing rooms. By the time he reaches his locker, he’s composed. He grins at the other man. It's mostly teeth but it's his best. It doesn't matter anyway since Danny isn't even looking at him.

They get dressed in silence and neither of them is keen on hurrying the exchange. Tony is trying not to look at Danny - or whatever his name is - but he can’t help it. It’s jarring how stiff and… muted his whole person looks right now. Especially given how the fluidity of his body is generally mesmerizing even when still groggy with sleep. Tony thinks of the bruises that this skin might soon have if he goes back to Karimov. But then Tony thinks of the camaraderie he’s observed the two men have between them and wonders if he’s completely misunderstood their dynamic. Maybe Karimov is not abusing Lorraine after all. Maybe they are partners, real partners, and it was someone else who hurt Danny…

No. Even if it was someone else, Karimov let it happen. And it would be entirely uncharacteristic for such a man as Aryan Karimov to have a partner who he’d consider his equal. And now he’s expecting to get his boy toy back. Can Tony refuse? Does he want to?

Danny is still standing with his back to Tony and his hand is slowly reaching into his jacket pocket. Weirdly slowly, as if unwilling to finish the movement. When he straightens his spine, his joints become loose, and solidify into the muscle strength of a fighter or a dancer he usually has. A transformation; that's the only word Tony can think of. It's not just a more relaxed stance; it's as if a whole new (old?) persona is being put on. A performance, that’s that this is.

Giving the flash drive to Tony must be at least somewhat difficult for him. Good.

Tony shakes it off. Danny’s just a whore bait, Tony tells himself. He doesn’t matter. He never mattered, Tony has always known that Danny’s reasons for being with him are rather prosaic and Tony doesn’t care. He doesn’t. Whatever he’d thought that there was or could be between them, Tony pushes down.

"So how much is on there?" Tony asks as he’s looking at how Danny is still holding his fist in his jacket pocket. "All of Abu Dhabi or the rest too?"

Danny’s face snaps up to look at Tony, but he drops his gaze immediately.

“Oh, come on,” Tony scoffs. “You can tell me. I’ve been around the block a couple of times before, Lorraine. Sex tape? Not the first time.” He shrugs. “In fact, you could’ve just asked.”

Tony’s a masochist; there’s no other explanation. What does it even matter how much was filmed? Danny’s a performer and Tony’s the gullible fool who let himself be tied up. And now it’s all digitalized for a repeated enjoyment of many.

Tony wants to throw up.

Danny is still quiet.

“So come on,” Tony insists, “fess up. How much was it?”

“It’s just the first night.”

Oh. That time was… relatively tame compared to many others. Either the relief of that or the way Danny is trying to appear apologetic and wipe his expression clean at the same time, the pretender that he is, makes Tony add, “I knew what I was getting into from the moment I saw your fake ass out there in the corridor. Not the first time someone's been trying to seduce me. You didn’t think I actually cared at all?” he drawls. “As if I’d fall for someone like you.”

Direct hit: Danny’s facial muscles spasm. Tony wants to smile but can’t.

“You're a decent lay for a plant.” Tony shrugs. “Enjoyed it while it lasted anyway.”

Danny’s movements while putting his wallet and the phone into his pocket don’t turn jerky nor do his hands shake but everything about the man looks wrong somehow. Not real. Tony should feel triumph at tearing the masks down, but that’s not what it feels like. It feels as if he’s kicking somebody who’s already down and that doesn’t make sense. Is that how good of an actor Danny is or is it the result of Tony’s own misplaced sense of guilt?

“Well, give it here then,” Tony harrumphs.

Lifting his head, Danny reaches the flash drive out for Tony to take. As Tony watches him, his expression smoothes out; his knuckles are not white around the thing, his jaw is not tense. Danny looks as if he's at a business meeting, his face all polite attentiveness.

It’s fitting. The flash drive changing hands is now just a formality.

“Tell your boss that I’ll be in touch later," Tony says. "Don’t bother coming back to the mansion, I’ll send your stuff to wherever Karimov is.”

He regrets it the moment he says it, but at this point, it’s the only thing he can do. SHIELD wants his A-game and that’s what Karimov expects - for Tony to be outraged enough to drop Lorraine like a hot potato. The memory of the faint bruises around Danny’s wrists, over his shoulders, and on his hip that Tony saw on the day of the signing, make his gut tighten for a moment, but he brushes it away. Nobody is making Danny go.

“You’ve got your passport now, right?” he still asks from the threshold, not looking at Danny. “So you can leave if you want to?”

There’s a pause.

“Yes.” 

Instinctively, Tony knows that for whatever reason, Danny won’t. And that's a good thing for now. Disappearing into thin air would be the worst possible course of action; while SHIELD  _ might _ let him go, they probably won’t. If Danny is there during the arrest, he’ll probably cooperate and Tony can negotiate on his behalf. And as for Karimov’s temper… He’ll probably be too pleased with Danny duping the billionaire, won’t he? He might even reward Danny, but Tony chooses not to think about the ways in which that could happen.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faustess did a quick last-minute beta - THANK YOU!! <3

“If I do this,” Tony says casually three days later, as he’s regarding Aryan over the tabletop. "I want my boy toy back. Tonight.” Tony flashes Aryan a cold grin.

Clint feels his jaw go slack but makes sure it doesn't fall open.

“Daniel?” Aryan looks equally taken aback. “Why?” he asks in Russian.

To Clint’s and probably Aryan’s surprise, Tony replies also in Russian.

“Why not? He’s a good lay.” He’s got a thick accent, but it’s understandable and Clint’s Russian is not good enough to judge the grammar. “And maybe… I’d like to pay him back his kindness.”

A faint feeling of... something Clint doesn't want to acknowledge, shrinks back inside him and dies. Trying to stay unnoticed, he watches Aryan's slow nod. It's not yet an agreement but understanding. He clearly sees where Tony is coming from; revenge is something he understands and seems to find natural that Tony Stark would want to get back at a man who seduced and betrayed him.

And while understanding the concept, Clint can’t place Tony into this exact scenario. Tony is not a cruel man, he’s far from it, in fact. The payback is most likely an excuse Tony thinks Aryan will understand. But why  _ would _ he ask Clint back? What's his game?

The staring contest is getting long and instinctively, Clint knows that Aryan doesn’t want to share, not at all. Clint knows this instinctively, but he has no idea if Tony realizes it.

“Just for a while," Tony continues in English, "you can have him back after a couple of deals have been successfully concluded."

Aryan peers at Tony with open suspicion. "Danny is not good hostage. Not valuable. Just my assistant."

For a second, Tony stares at Aryan, then throws his head back and laughs loudly.

"Don't be ridiculous, Aryan!" Tony says after he gets his pretend mirth under control. "Of course, he's not your assistant. I have one, and I definitely can't afford to lend her out for several weeks like you just did with him." Tony smirks unpleasantly. "He's just a toy. I’m sure you don’t care that much for him that you can’t spare him for a little while longer."

  
  


So Clint is back at the mansion. The moment he steps over the threshold, Tony disappears and he's left alone in the vast lobby. Since Tony hasn't said anything, he walks upstairs into the living quarters they'd been sharing before but hesitates to enter the bedroom. He looks around the lounge and drops into an armchair.

Once again he's got nothing but the clothes on his back and Aryan's promise of sending his stuff along later. It might be an empty promise though; the Tajik didn't seem like he'd make it very easy for Clint. Besides, as far as he knows, Clint would be spending his time here naked anyway. So he might be entirely at Tony's mercy for now.

How many more invisible prisons will he have to endure before it stops? If SHIELD decides to incarcerate him after all... at least the pretense will finally be over.

But why is he here in the first place? Tony can't possibly be so hard up for his cock that he'd stoop to just… Everything Clint has ever known about Tony Stark says that he wouldn't just buy himself a whore to fuck him whenever. Or maybe that's exactly what this is. The possibility of Tony maybe… just wanting to… No. Both options seem equally unlikely. Tony couldn't possibly be so over his hurt that he'd try to save the man who had so carelessly betrayed him. Or maybe that's just the sort of man Tony Stark is.

Fuck.

Clint has no idea, and the uncertainty thrumming under his skin, painfully eating through his insides in a sickeningly toxic way is the best revenge Tony could ever exact on him. Leave him alone for a couple of hours, marinating in his own fear and guilt. Though honestly - Tony probably does not believe that he could feel guilt anyway.

There are steps and instinctively, Clint knows that it's Tony. Hastily, he stands and turns.

"You can have any of the guest rooms," Tony says, not even looking at him. "You know about the mealtimes and the cleaning crews. What else?" He waves his hand, clearly not expecting Clint to reply. "I guess I'll see you when I'll see you."

He's already moving past through another door and Clint can't-

"Tony, wait," he calls out.

Tony stops but doesn't turn around.

"Why did you…?" For a second, words fail him, but then he decides on, "Why am I here?"

"Seriously?" Tony whirls around to glare at him. "Why do you think you are here? You think I would let that brute paw you a second more if I could stop it? I know people like him. I don't know how he got his claws into you, but I promise you. I can get you out."

Anger is warring with relief. There's a lump in his throat but this is not the time. He can't fall apart yet. He's got things to do, so anger has to win.

"I was handling it."

"Yeah,” Tony says dismissively. “I'm sure."

Clint's fists curl, his nails burying themselves into his palms. "I've been doing it longer than you can imagine."

Something flickers across Tony's face. "I wasn’t going to let him have you for a moment longer if I could help it," he says quietly. “So yeah, I got you out as fast as I could. I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner.” Tony lifts his cool gaze to Clint making him shiver. “But don’t presume we are friends. We’re not. And we are not fucking either. Understood?”

The dregs of relief flare up and die like a large heavy rock sinking down into the pit of his stomach.

"Understood."

"And don't go out," Tony adds, already turning away. "You are supposed to be lying bloody in my basement or something."

"Of course," Clint assures him. "Thank you," he adds, his throat clogged, but it doesn't matter because Tony can't hear him anymore; the echo of his steps on the marble is already fading.

Tony hates him. Of course he does. Clint’s scum and now Tony knows it. That's good, he tells himself. Very good.

  
  


In every other way, the mission is a success. Clint is not included in any decisions from here on out nor is he supposed to know the details, but Tony is sometimes on the phone when Clint can overhear him. Three times over the next twelve days Tony forgets to log off his computer, so Clint can go over the recent transactions involving the subsidiary companies that are paid for dealing with the guns that have been written off. He seems to be a lot more lax about security than Aryan ever was. It’s making Clint livid. Why would Tony be so stupid? Especially with a potential traitor in his house. Does he really think Clint - no, Danny - is so insignificant? Not even considered a threat?

Once this is over, Clint will tell him. Anyone could rob him blind! If Clint had known it before, he’d have told Aryan not to bother with the sex tape at all - Clint could’ve just stolen something worth protecting.

But there’s no point in stupid regrets, and Clint takes pictures with his phone, sends them off to SHIELD and pretends to be bored at the mansion. He doesn’t have to pretend that much; gut-wrenching guilt does leave a lot of room for boredom.

It’s a good thing that Clint managed to hide his SHIELD phone from Aryan. Even though Clint has no idea what SHIELD has in store for him, it feels like his only lifeline. Tony knows about it, but he’s never asked about it. Why? Probably used to seeing people having multiple devices, so now Clint can use it to report everything back to Coulson without much sneaking. It’s adding another layer of guilt heaped atop the personal betrayal, but Clint tells himself that it’s for Tony’s own good. If SHIELD knows that he was coerced, it’ll be okay. Coulson has assured him that Tony won't be harmed and Clint believes him.

He’s not naive enough to imagine that there won’t be a couple of ‘mutually beneficial’ contracts between SI and SHIELD, but comparatively, that’s a very good outcome.

  
  


Next week, there’s the first hand-off and none of the big shots are on site; it’s a small shipment, a trial run. Clint only learns about it via Tony’s laptop in his bedroom. Tony is in the shower and Clint is being sneaky but this is getting ridiculous. He’s just getting up from the chair when it hits him.

It’s not Tony who’s being ridiculous, Clint is.

Calmly, he sits back into the wingback at the window and dives in head-first into everything he can find on Tony’s laptop.

He’s almost finished by the time Tony comes out of the bathroom. He stops dead on the threshold and slowly crosses his arms over his chest. The dark red bathrobe is still falling enticingly open over his chest, but Clint keeps his eyes trained onto the screen.

“You don’t have anything important on it,” Clint says. “Except everything you wanted me to see.”

“Finally caught on, have you?”

Despite what Tony says, Clint suspects that he is actually surprised. Maybe even a tad impressed, and that makes a wave of satisfaction rise up in his chest.

“Why though,” Clint goes on. “What did you think I would do with this information? You didn’t really think I would report back to Karimov, did you?”

In fact, the only explanation he has feels too fantastic to contemplate; the relief and the sting of betrayal are mixing in a compote of confusion in his brain. He does see several possible reasons for Tony doing this, but none of them seem likely. Clint’s just going to wait and fish for confirmation on two of his pet theories.

“No. I didn’t think you would,” Tony says. He stares at Clint for a moment longer. “But we needed to check. There are minor discrepancies in accounting and locations in my files, so if you actually had a stake in the business, Karimov would’ve descended on me a week ago, so I’m pretty sure that you’re not reporting to him.”

We.

_ We had to check. _

Trying to breathe calmly, Clint nods. “SHIELD contacted you.”

“Before Karimov did, yes.” Tony drops his arms, walks further into the room and into the walk-in closet. “I told them that you weren’t part of the business but they wanted proof, so I proposed this plan.”

Clint snorted. “They would’ve done it anyway.” Relief is overwhelmingly coursing through his system but he ignores his weak knees and stands. “I guess I should’ve expected it.” He sets the laptop on the chest of drawers.

He’s about to walk out when Tony reappears in the dressing room doorway. He’s staring at Clint intently, then sags and leans heavily on the doorframe.

“You are the informant.” He rubs his hand over his face. “I did hope but…”

His eyes shine with something like wonder and Clint can’t stand it.

“It just sort of happened,” Clint explains hastily. “I was at the right place at the right time to get close to Karimov, so I did.” He cringes at the supposed modesty that can give Tony the exact wrong picture, so he adds, “It wasn’t even my choice, the way it happened.”

Tony shakes his head. “I very much doubt that. You could’ve escaped any time during the time I’ve known you and I bet also before that.” He stares at Clint, a calculative glint in his eyes. “I remember you talking about wanting to buy a whole building just so you could save the people’s homes.” He smiles. “So don’t even try, Mr. Saviour Complex.”

Clint shrugs helplessly. “That has nothing to do with this mission! It’s not as if I actually bought the building and Aryan is still doing what he’s doing more almost two years later.”

Instead of agreeing with how uselessly long it has taken Clint to get anywhere with his plan, Tony’s face softens. “It’s been tough on you, hasn’t it?”

Clint huffs, drops his gaze and starts moving towards the door. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Stark.”

“I also checked what you did with my black card,” Tony calls out after his retreating back.

Clint flushes and almost runs to his room.

This is stupid. That’s just… It’s not as if Clint needed clothes or fancy cars. The children’s homes and animal shelters need help - all the time. Clint should know.

For a while Clint just paces his room. It’s good that Tony has been acting on behalf of SHIELD from the beginning. Clint should’ve realized that Coulson would talk to him. Thank god.

Clint flops onto the bed and falls backward on it. He stares at the ceiling for longer than necessary, then closes his eyes.

He will report about their conversation when he calls in tonight. He’s been playing by the rules since the first contact with Romanoff. Maybe they’ll let Clint go with a slap on the wrist too?

Which makes him suddenly realize something.

However ridiculous Tony’s misguided notions about him are, the fact is, that at least on some level, he doesn’t hate Clint any more.

God.

The heaviness that’s been keeping him down, compressed and suffocating, is lifted. The relief is so overwhelming that blinking, Clint has to swallow back a sob.

This is stupid. In the long run, it doesn't change anything but his idiotic heart... He keeps fantasizing about how Tony says, ‘I forgive you’, ‘You’re amazing’, and ‘I’ve always dreamed that you felt that way too…’.

Clint snorts.

Naive, moronic heart. There’s an eon from ‘doesn’t hate’ to ‘l-ikes you back’, and getting a modicum of respect back should mean the world already.  _ Does _ . So his stupid heart will just have to shut up and keep to its primary function.

Clint gets up, puts on his training shorts and a T-shirt, and goes to the gym on the mansion’s basement level. He starts with jogging on a treadmill, then runs as fast as he can. Fuck, but he’s out of shape. His cardio too short, Clint stretches a little and hits the weight machines for a punishing circuit. He knows he should do more reps with less weight, but he can’t. His emotional uproar demands the painful approach.

It’s so entirely pathetic to have become so infatuated with his mark. How do these things keep happening to him? Barney was right, he always fell too fast. Every fucking time.

His fingers tighten around nothing and he has to suppress the phantom feeling missing something that is not even a part of him anymore. Hasn’t been in a while. Almost growling with frustration, he strides out of the gym. Without stopping to think what he’s doing, he lets his legs carry him to the kitchen and to the fridge. He opens it and stares. Milk, a food carton, a carton with something, ham, different cheeses… He grabs a juice carton, turns around and freezes.

“Thought you’d be here sooner or later, your stomach is relentless,” Tony says.

As if on cue, Clint’s stomach growls.

Chuckling, Tony turns back to the coffee machine. “You let SHIELD know?”

Clint takes a big gulp straight from the carton and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I usually call after you’ve fallen asleep.”

“You don’t have to wait now that I know, though. I’m sure Romanoff would want to know sooner rather than later.”

Clint drinks the juice straight from the carton and then gets a random sealed plastic box of food out. There’s some rice thing in it - good enough - and Clint gets a fork. It tastes weird cold, but is edible. His stomach growls again and he tucks in.

“Oh, fuck, no,” Tony exclaims. “Let me heat it up for you,” he says and takes the box away from Clint.

Feeling bereft but not wanting to upset the careful balance of their not-quite friendship, Clint stares after it mournfully.

Tony puts the carton into the microwave. "When are you calling them?"

“I’ll do it after eating.”

“Good.” Tony nods and pours the coffee into two mugs and holds one out to Clint.

Clint swallows hard and nods his thanks.

They are silent for a while and Clint thinks it's getting uncomfortable. Then the microwave pings and Tony puts the food on the plate and on the table, so Clint is forced to actually sit down. Or maybe he just wants to because Tony is being nice to him again, so he eats, drinks and makes small talk.

“It’s a brave thing you’re doing,” Tony says as he’s putting the dishes into the machine. “All this time I’ve known you, Karimov’s been treating you like crap and so have I, and here you are, still making sure that the operation is running as it’s supposed to.”

For a short moment, Clint hides his face behind the mug. But it’s wrong what Tony is saying about Clint, and wrong what he says about himself and Clint just can’t...

“You didn’t treat me like crap,” he finally manages.

There’s a pregnant pause. “Yeah, I did. I bought you. There was no way for me to know for sure how much of your consent was freely given and how much coerced, and I never even stopped to think about it.”

There’s a brittle edge to the words, a dark despair of self-recrimination, and Clint puts his fork down with a clang.

“No,” Clint says forcefully. “No, Tony.” For a short, too short a minute, he covers Tony's hand with his own. Squeezes it. Tony startles and with a pang of regret Clint lets go. “You  _ never _ forced me," Clint says. "I never felt coerced with you because you always asked me and made sure that I had a good time. The best time, really. And mostly… you just did what I wanted anyway so… and that… felt fantastic.”

Momentarily Tony looks relieved, but then he sighs heavily and his shoulders slump. “Yeah, I… I’m glad you feel that way about the sex…” He glances in Clint's direction, then quickly away as if feeling guilty. “But you can’t tell me that the first night was in any way your idea.”

He swallows, and determinedly, lifting his gaze on Clint’s face, waiting— no, demanding a response. Clint knows that he can’t fuck this up. He can’t.

“No. No, you’re right, it wasn't." He thinks of other times he was sent out on similar 'missions' by Aryan and suppresses a grimace of distaste. "Not the first time. But there was nothing that night that I genuinely didn't enjoy. And after, everything kept happening on my terms. You made it easy for me." And I hope you liked it too, he almost adds, but that feels like the wrong thing to say somehow. They are not talking about a date, it was just sex. Good sex, but that’s all it was. What Tony wanted, Clint delivered. It was clear that Tony loved it too; no question about it. "A big step-up from what I had before, at least,” he adds.

Clint grins reassuringly, but Tony flinches.

“Yeah, a step-up from a sadistic rapist,” Tony muttered, lowering his head. “Great.”

Clint puts his mug down with a loud clatter. “It wasn’t…” He shakes his head and glares at Tony. “I wasn't…”

_ I wasn’t raped. _

“The sex part was never really violent,” he says. It’s hard to talk past the lump in his throat. “Aryan never… He did… hurt me, but that... That had nothing to do with sex.” He’ can’t say that sex with Aryan had always been great, but it wasn’t bad either and that’s not the point anyway. “It was my choice to stay,” he ends up saying. “You were right before - I could’ve escaped any time. I  _ chose _ not to,” he finished vehemently.

For a little while, Tony just looks at him, and then nods.

“Fair enough.” He glances around the kitchen, into his empty mug, and stands. “So that brings us back to the point of you being incredibly courageous in general and one tough cookie in this particular bakery," he says lightly. "I’m glad that we can agree on that one.”

Tony grins, and passing Clint on his way to the living room, claps Clint on the shoulder briefly. “Grab me a beer, will you?” he tells Clint from the doorway and disappears.

“I…” Clint starts quietly, aware of the fact that Tony can’t hear him anymore.

After a minute or two, Clint hears a faint noise of the TV from the other room.

There isn’t anything he can say that would factually oppose Tony’s words, but it still sounds wrong. Making Clint into someone brave and clever. A kind of a hero.

“It wasn’t like that,” he mutters under his breath. Then he takes two beers from the fridge and goes to flop down onto the sofa near Tony just as they’d been doing regularly only a few weeks ago. “Almost two years ago, I botched a mission,” he starts. Maybe if he explains it better, Tony will see how wrong he is about Clint. How stupid Clint actually is. How useless. “I can’t be sure what exactly happened, but I think that by the time I arrived, my contact had already been killed. There was an explosion and I got captured. But not as a part of the mission I was on, so they had no idea who I really was and I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them.” Tony probably isn’t cleared to hear all this, but Clint doesn’t care.

He rolls up a newspaper into a narrow tube, folds it in half and pops the bottle open. Tony stares.

“That time,” Clint goes on, “for some reason, Aryan happened to be at the livestock hand-over in person… He isn't usually.” Clint thinks back to the sick girl he helped out of the van, turning straight to the guy in a suit to tell him in broken Farsi that she needed a doctor fast. “I... made an impression I guess.” He has no idea what had happened to the girl. Dead most probably. “I mouthed off, hit one of the clowns. All the basic stupid shit.”

The shit he’s been taught not to do when trying to negotiate with kidnappers. Just being his dumb self, getting everyone around him in trouble. But instinctively, he’d also known how to impress the Tajiks and not to be just shot then and there.

Clint suddenly remembers that he brought Tony a bottle too, so he takes the newspaper and opens the second one the same way and hands it over.

“We’ve got bottle openers in the civilized world, you know,” Tony says, taking the bottle.

Clint shrugs and takes a swig. “Forgot to bring it.”

What is Tony staring at now? Experimentally slowly, Clint lowers his hand and sets his bottle onto his thigh. Tilts his head, and internally, startles. His mouth — Tony’s eyes are definitely on his mouth. Clint swallows drily.

“Clearly,” Tony says after a pause.

Clint’s heart starts beating rapidly and taking deep breaths as surreptitiously as he can, he tries to calm it down. Tony talking to him like an equal again is world-shattering enough, but now they are suddenly back to flirting? Why? Because being a rogue SHIELD agent is somehow more respectable than being a mob boss’s whore? Well, it is but… Clint still feels like a liar. An impostor. He breaks the eye contact and takes a tiny sip from his bottle. Then in one motherfucking gulp he empties half of his bottle.

Tony has misunderstood everything. Fuck. How can he make Tony understand?

Tony clears his throat and turns away. “Movie?”

Grateful, Clint nods and Tony reaches for the remote on the table.

“We can talk strategies,” Tony says.

“Sure,” Clint agrees, relieved and disappointed all at once. Yes, strategies. That’s important. They can do that.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ven, Faustess, Bae - you are all awsome! TY <3 <3 <3

“The trial shipment was success,” Karimov says over the phone just after agreeing on the date of the second shipment the next month. “You got money, I got guns. What else you want?”

“What? He’s a great lay!” Tony exclaims arrogantly. His heart is thundering in his temples and his hands are sweating. “You can have him back the moment I get the phone call about the second shipment,” he adds. “It needs to be big, though.”

This is a risky move but Tony is banking on the Tajik being greedy. And if he thinks that Tony is just stupidly in love with Danny, then let him. It’s not as if he’s that far off the mark anyway. Tony scowls.

“No need to be greedy. This not last deal,” Karimov says reassuringly.

Or maybe it’s a threat. A reminder that Tony can’t get out of the business now that he’s actually started on his criminal path.

“I know that,” Tony says, “but I think I’ll keep your plaything a little longer, alright?”

It’s not really a question, and he’s trying for a lighter tone, but he clearly is failing. It’s a good thing, though - there’s no way Karimov will think that Tony needs the shipment to be big so that SHIELD can catch him red-handed.

There's a split-second pause and Tony finds himself holding his breath.

"Fine. Let me know the details. You just bring Danny."

"Deal," Tony agrees, and disconnects.

There's a rustle of clothes and Tony turns around to look up onto the north gallery of the library.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Danny says, leaning on the parapet. “I could’ve handled two more weeks at his house.”

Yeah, but I couldn’t, Tony thinks. “He’s got a villa. You’ve ever been there?”

“No. But I can guess what it’s like - ultra-modern with a wall of weapons in a prominent place.”

Tony snorts. “That’s his thing then? I thought it was a decorator’s choice?”

Danny shakes his head. “He has one in every house he owns. In Dushanbe, he even has some weapons on his bedroom wall.” He straightens and lightly vaults over the banister, landing unbelievably quietly next to Tony.

“Is this supposed to be sexy?" Tony asks, trying to sound unimpressed. "You’re just being a monkey.”

Danny grins wider. “Thank you.”

Tony snorts. “That was not a compliment.”

“Yes, it was. You meant the first part, not the second.”

Is Danny flirting? Tony’s heart is beating fast and he wants to kiss Dan-

Clearing his throat, Danny looks away.

"If that's what you need to tell yourself," Tony mumbles and pockets his phone. He flashes Danny a neutral smile. “Excuse me, I need to make some phone calls.”

  
  


The rest of the day Tony spends working, and not thinking about certain people whom he has no business thinking about.

Daniel Lorraine, the sexy assistant who’s paid hourly for ‘consultation’ is one thing, an undercover SHIELD agent who wields his sex appeal as a weapon, is something else entirely, and him being under Tony’s roof now is a part of an operation, not an opportunity to get his rocks off. Danny might still act flirty but he certainly isn't interested. And even if he were, Tony is not interested in what Danny is offering. 

How could Tony be so stupid? Getting attached to the man whose real name he doesn’t even know and who will most probably be out of his life the moment the bad guys are behind bars?

At some point, Tony thought that he knew who Danny is, but of course, he was deluding himself. Daniel Lorraine is a man who plays a charming drunk in order to get close to his mark; someone who clocks what their mark wants in bed and delivers it effortlessly. Someone who can sleep with the enemy and let himself be beaten up for a mission. So yeah, Tony can fully acknowledge now that he was seduced by the best.

And despite everything ‘Daniel Lorraine’ had done, the way he'd used Tony, forgiveness feels to be a word away. If only Danny asked...

God, Tony is so stupid.

But the man, who’s been living in his mansion for the last few weeks, is not the same man Tony thought he knew. In light of new information, the whole picture has turned upside down. Even though Tony doesn’t know Danny’s real name, he knows that Danny is a man who jokes in the face of doom, looks at Tony and _sees_ him. He sees when Tony is off and goes out of his way to make Tony feel better just because he can. He breezes through a banquet hall in a tuxedo but feels most comfortable in a stained T-shirt on a sofa, stuffing his face with cold pizza. He also talks to all the pets he encounters, whether their owners are jerks or not, and spends huge sums on charity instead of… whatever.

The Danny that Tony interacts with now is a man who was given a very difficult set of choices and despite making some hard ones, there were plenty of times he did make the right ones. Maybe because he felt that he had no choice at that time, and maybe because Karimov had to be stopped, but in any case, Tony thinks he understands. Besides, if it hadn’t been Danny, someone else would still have approached Tony and most probably, Tony would be in deep, deep, deep shit right now.

  
  


For the next two weeks, Tony avoids him and only when he signs off on a shipment to be sent to the subsidiary, does he seek the man out.

Tony finds him in the gym; not a rare occurrence these days. The agent, as Tony has started to call him in the privacy of his own head, is hanging upside down on the horizontal pole doing sit-ups. Tony swallows. 

“Dan…” he starts, then trails off. He clears his throat. “The contractor that’s supposed to recycle the guns will receive the shipment tomorrow. The handover is this Saturday.”

The man stops while hanging in the rest position for only a moment, then resumes the exercise.

“You’ve been to his villa, right?” he asks, his voice mostly devoid of any sign of strain. “And there was a weapons wall? Is it in the same room where you made the deal the last time?”

“Yeah.” Tony frowns. “Yeah, it was. But I’m not sure you can use them. They might be just for the glitz and glamor.”

The agent grunts in reply, but doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he finishes a set and grabs a hold of the pole to lower his legs. His face is red, but the sweat staining his back and his powerful arms make him beautiful. Tony remembers how this body feels under him and above him, surrounding him, and has to swallow back his want.

“What’s your name anyway?” Tony blurts. “Feels wrong to call you Danny. And ‘the agent’ is getting old. Also stupid.”

The man freezes with the water bottle at his lips.

“I’m not that much of an agent now,” he says quietly and takes a large gulp.

“The hell you aren’t,” Tony parries. “But if you don’t want to tell me, that’s cool.”

Tony raises his hands in a placating gesture even though the other man isn’t even looking at him. Instead, he’s wiping the sweat off his forehead with a towel and Tony has to tear his gaze away.

“I know, I don’t have clearance,” Tony backtracks, puts his hands into his pockets, and starts walking away. “It’s fine.”

He’s halfway to the elevator when the agent speaks up.

“It’s Barton. Clint Barton.”

Tony turns around, but Clint is already leaving through the other door to the showers. Well. Okay.

  
  


Tony Googles him. Of course he does, he can’t help it. Tony goes to his room, takes his laptop and sits down on the bed. He digs deeper. After the whole information imbalance they’ve been having between them, it doesn’t feel wrong. Rather therapeutic even.

Clint Francis Barton, 28.

28? He doesn’t look it, but it’s the right picture, so it must be true.

A SHIELD employee since 22, GED at 23, last place of residence - Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn.

Tony’s breath hitches and he starts religiously searching for any scrap of information that could show him how much of what D- Clint has told Tony about himself might be true. The building belongs to a Russian. There was a tenant with a first name Simone who had three kids. She was evicted about a year and a half ago. Clint supported a local animal shelter as a volunteer and with money.

Tony closes his laptop, sets it on the bed beside him, and lies down.

Wow.

That’s… wow.

  
  


On the day they are going to Karomov’s villa, Clint looks more like himself than ever, even if he is sporting a weird purple sleeveless shirt under his sports jacket. Danny would’ve worn something fancier, but Tony doesn’t remark on it; maybe it’s something Clint needs.

They take a car and Tony drives. They don’t talk. Clint’s expression is pensive, and Tony gets it; whatever happens now, this is the culmination of work Clint had been doing for almost two years now. So of course, this is a huge deal for him.

The plan is to meet up with the big bad, make small talk, receive the phone call that Karimov’s men have been arrested and wait for the agents to burst in to take the man himself. Clint says that it’s safe. There are supposedly agents on the grounds and maybe Karimov is not even carrying a gun. Tony just hopes the Tajik won’t start grabbing any swords off his walls. His whatshisface right-hand is armed for sure, but Clint says that’s not going to be a problem and Tony is really hoping he’s right.

It doesn’t mean that Tony isn’t worried though.

They arrive at the villa on time, and everything goes as it was the last time: one of the staff lets them in, checks them for weapons and shows them into a second storey lounge. It’s the same room Tony was in the last time; the open french window with a balcony, the silly overcompensation wall of shiny weapons, which look both ancient and at the same time mint new like props for a historical play, and the laptop on the table, where the other Tajik is setting up the money transfer.

The only difference is Danny, who stepped into a car as a man readying for a battle but came out of it as a happy-go-lucky chatty escort Danny Lorraine.

Karimov greets Tony coolly and tries to stare him down but Tony doesn’t let him. He turns away, pointedly disinterested and greets the whatshisface. The man nods and they exchange some polite words. Out of the corner of his eyes, Tony sees Clint- no, _Danny_ smiling at Karimov and it looks warm, that smile. It’s the silly mask he pulls on that Tony can’t now see as anything other than fake but what hurts… is that Tony has seen that smile directed at himself too.

“Nice digs,” Clint says. (Tony is woefully unable to switch the names back in his head. He just hopes he won’t call him by the wrong name out loud.)

“What you know of this?” Karimov responds, his tone indifferent, almost rude, but there’s a surprisingly warm sparkle in Karimov’s eyes. “Nothing.” He gestures towards Clint’s torso. “Your shirt is… or did your new boyfriend pick it out?”

“If I’d chosen anything,” Tony says flippantly, “he’d be naked.”

Only Clint makes any effort to grin at that.

“Ah, Mehrab!” Clint turns to the man, greeting him with cheerfulness that is almost mocking. “Long time no see, old friend!”

Going by Mehrab’s reaction, the man clearly knows the quality of Clint’s sincerity.

“I enjoyed every minute of it,” Mehrab replies in Russian.

Clint laughs and that sounds genuine, even if a little mocking. At whom the mockery is directed, is unclear.

“Everything is according to plan, yes?” Karimov asks with a veneer of politeness.

“Sure, sure,” Tony waves the question away in his reckless playboy way and walks to the two large white leather sofas. He sinks into the plush leather seat facing the balcony so he can see both men only to realize a moment later that now he can’t see the doors behind his back. Thankfully, Clint is lazily strutting around the room and sees it all, so maybe it’s not too bad.

Clint walks up to the phallic display and stops to examine it.

“I see your beauties are all new here?” he comments with what sounds like cursory interest.

“New house, new weapons.” Karimov shrugs. “Better fit.”

Clint’s eyes roam the wall very quickly, breezily as if it doesn’t matter. “Wow, look at that bow! Do you know how to use this one too?”

He reaches out, and before Karimov can even breathe, plucks the thing off the wall, almost drops it, lifts it again, cocks an arrow and brandishes it around in a wild, uncontrolled arc.

“Hey!” Tony exclaims as the suspiciously sharp-looking arrow tip swims over him and-

Buries itself between Mehrab’s small and ring fingers deep in the tabletop.

For a second, no one moves.

“Put. That. Away,” Karimov, hisses.

“Whoa!” Clint jumps belatedly. He almost trips over his feet in his hurry to drop the bow onto the sofa. “I’m so sorry, buddy,” he tells Mehrab, “you okay?”

He scurries over to the table, grabs Mehrab’s palm to check it over, and almost gets socked in the eye by the incensed Tajik.

Without any seeming effort, Clint pulls the arrow out of the tabletop.

“Aw, table, no.” He caresses the damaged wooden surface mournfully.

“Shut up and sit,” Karimov says sharply, and with an apologetic grin, Clint does as ordered.

Unsure of how much of what happened is actually an act and what was even the point of getting a _bow_ down from the wall, Tony stands and walks up to the bar.

“Vodka, Aryan?” he asks, trying to alleviate the tension.

“Whiskey,” the man replies, finally drawing his furious gaze away from Clint and his charmingly flustered, blushing face.

Tony wonders whether Karimov ever cared to notice how far down that blush actually goes. Whether he’s ever seen Clint’s real, bashful smile when he's been given a genuine compliment. Whether he has any inkling that Clint Barton is now sitting on the sofa, next to the bow, while clumsily fiddling with _two_ arrows. Where did he get the second one?

Carefully, Tony doesn’t look at the wall, lest he draws attention to it.

There are perfectly nice throwing knives on that wall, he wants to tell Clint.

The next twelve minutes stretch out and flash past in a blink. They don’t discuss the business at all, all the details have been pre-negotiated and fine-tuned the last time they did this. The small talk resumes in fits and bursts, even though they all try and none of them checks their phones as if that would mean admitting to weakness.

Tony’s phone goes off first but it’s just a text. Tony is not surprised, there’s no reason to think that anything is wrong, but he still schools his face before checking it.

_Trucks are here. Beginning handover._

So far so good.

“They’ve arrived,” he says with a smile and Karimov nods.

A minute later, Tony is taking a sip of bourbon when Karimov gets his phone call.

A moment later, Tony’s gets a new message:

_Covers are blown. Get out of there_


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I always knew that Aryan has kids, but somehow it never made into this story. I’ve now added one sentence into the 1st chapter, so that when the reader gets here, it’s not that strange. I just hope that it doesn’t feel strange for you, who have been with me from posting the first chapter. :)
> 
> Ven and Bae - you did a speed beta again - Thank you so much! <3

Clint notices Tony's eyes widening as momentary panic flashes in them, so he’s ready. By the time Aryan and Mehrab are reaching for their guns, Clint is already moving.

After so long, he’s unpracticed in fight, but he still manages to knock Mehrab over while nocking an arrow and shooting at Aryan’s hand. Aryan yells and drops his gun. From the corner of his eye, Clint sees Tony and Mehrab grappling for the revolver, so Clint twists and elbows Mehrab in the face. The man slumps over and stills.

“Don't be an idiot,” Aryan growls as he sees Clint knocking his second arrow.

“Don’t,” Clint warns but Aryan still picks up his gun while cradling his injured hand to his chest.

“If you know what’s good for you,” Aryan says in Tajik, “you’ll come with me, Lorraine,” and cleverly points his gun at Tony.

Clint feels his insides quiver but he just steps right in front of Tony, who’s now got his scared brave face on.

“Hey!” Tony exclaims and tries to get around Clint, but is helpfully blocked by the heavy sofa. “Dream on, you fucker,” Tony still manages to yell from behind Clint’s significantly larger back.

“Danny,” Aryan tries reasoning, and there’s desperation in his eyes now, but it doesn’t feel like desperation of a criminal caught, but like a... 

No. Clint refuses to acknowledge the emotion rising up in his chest. Aryan is a criminal, his kidnapper, not his lover or even a friend. No.

“No,” he repeats out loud, feeling as if his soul is being scraped raw and bleeding. “It’s Clint. Agent Barton to you.”

Visibly shocked, Aryan stills. “You…”

The betrayal in his eyes is there only for a split second before it morphs into rage, but at the same moment, the door bursts open and Tagayev, one of the goons, almost knocks Aryan over.

“SHIELD’s here!” he shouts in Tajik. “Take the balcony!”

They start moving, but so does Clint. The second arrow drops Tagayev via shoulder wound, but Aryan doesn’t even look back as he almost falls over the railing.

“Hide,” Clint shouts at Tony, already on the railing. “Wait for SHIELD!”

“The hell I will!” Tony yells back right behind him, but thankfully, the first tac-gear is already here.

“Mr. Stark!”

Clint jumps.

It turns out to be unnecessary, since the SHIELD agents nab Aryan even before Clint gets up. Even though unarmed, Aryan fights, but when he notices Clint just standing there, he falters. Stops.

“You,” he says in clear Tajik. “Will regret this.”

Clint nods. “Your kids are going to be alright,” he replies also in Tajik. “Your brother will take good care of them.” He believes it. “You might not get along, but he’s a good man.”

Aryan is still staring at him when they lead him away, but his gaze has turned unreadable and Clint doesn't know how he feels about that.

“Agent Barton,” someone calls.

Clint turns around and spots Phil Coulson standing at the back door of a dark van. Clint's heart starts thudding.

“Status, agent,” Coulson says, his face intent, eyes roaming over Clint’s form.

“Two hostiles upstairs are down but need medical attention. The last I know the subject was unharmed, but there’s an unknown number of hostiles in the house. Permission to check, sir?”

“No need, the whole house is secure. Mr. Stark is alright.”

Relief floods Clint, but in the wake of it, anxiousness rises. Should he check on Tony anyway? Would Tony want him to? Merely tolerate it? Look at him bewildered as if he has no idea what Clint even wants?

“You alright, Agent Barton?” Coulson asks, stepping closer.

With a start, suddenly realizes that Coulson has been calling him ‘agent’ all this time. He turns back to his CO. Coulson is still his CO.

Clint nods and straightens. “Yes, sir. No injuries.”

“I can see that, agent. And how are you holding up? Your mission ran a bit long; that would take a toll on anyone.”

Unexpectedly, Clint feels like crying. He doesn't, but it’s a close call.

“In fighting form, sir. In every way.”

Coulson smiles briefly, but the approval in his eyes is real. “Good to hear. Get in the car then. Do you need anything from the Stark mansion before the debrief?”

“No, sir.”

Coulson nods. “Good. The quicker we tie up all the loose ends, the better.”

As Clint starts moving away, Coulson calls after him, “Welcome back, Agent Barton.”

Clint is glad that no one can see his face.

  
  


The briefing is in a small conference room with only Coulson and Agent Romanoff present, but Clint knows that the cameras are recording him in 360 degrees like a rare species. He can’t blame them.

“This is just a formality, Agent Barton,” Coulson tells him at the beginning as he throws a pointed look into the camera. “As far as SHIELD is concerned, you have been fully reinstated as an agent, and you will receive back pay for your deep undercover work accordingly.”

Clint nods and wonders how much of a dressing down Coulson will get for this reassurance. He knows that if SHIELD ends up disagreeing, then that’s that, but at this moment, he’s still immensely grateful.

He’s only a little less grateful when the debrief-interrogation finishes almost four hours later and he’s given a room at the SHIELD dormitory for senior agents. The room is small and impersonal, but as it stands, it’s better than nothing since his lease in Bed-Stuy has been up for more than a year now and all his stuff has been passed down to Barney. Clint grimaces. He has absolutely no doubt about the chances of getting any of it back.

The room is bare and he’s not obligated to stay there, but since it lacks bars on its windows, he locks the door behind himself, takes his ears out, dives headfirst into the bed and falls asleep.

  
  


The next day Clint is surprised to learn that he’s got a daily allowance and quite a hefty advance so he can buy himself some essentials. The number on his back pay notice makes his eyes widen in astonishment and momentary panic. Because what in hell...

There’s also Barney’s phone number but he’s not even tempted. All his stuff has already been sold or thrown out and the money squandered. Does he even want Barney to know that he’s alive? Clint hasn’t decided.

Instead, he thinks about calling Tony. Should he? He has some stuff at the manor, so that might work as an excuse. Tony will undoubtedly wonder why he didn’t call the main line and talk to Jarvis, though. That might be awkward.

Clint goes out but never makes it to Target. He manages to buy himself a laptop and then a pizzeria gets in the way and that is that. He eats and drinks and then wanders around a park talking to dogs. For dinner, he walks into a pub and plays darts. When he finally heads back he’s buzzed but not especially happy. The range he used to frequent is closed by the time he swings by and he’s loath to wake the owner, even though he still remembers the phone number.

He goes back to his room and stares at the ceiling, still holding the phone in his hand. He wishes he were drunk enough to text Tony. Drunk-texting was something Tony would, at least, understand.

  
  


The next day, Coulson calls him into work and he’s excited, but that turns out to be a trap. In the end, he does agree to a series of therapy sessions because what choice does he have? Besides, he gets a reward for that.

“Agent Barton,” Coulson tells him after the dates for the appointments are set. “I have something that is yours.”

He directs Clint into his personal office and takes out a case.

“I wasn’t sure what to do with it, so I just kept it in the storage.” He pushes it over the desk. “Felt wrong to put it into the ground instead of a body.”

Clint shudders, but the horrid idea also gives him the impetus to grab the case and open it. Lovingly, he takes his bow out, unfolds her and caresses her flank. She’s still as beautiful as ever and Clint’s fingers slowly circle around her body and tighten. His heart sings.

That night, he sleeps with his hand on his bow.

  
  


He feels more energized the next day. He takes a look at real estate sites but can’t decide on what exactly he’s looking for. He doesn’t need much, but knowing that he can afford better than he’s used to, stops him from making any decisions. Plus, there’s the apartment building that he used to live in. He feels as if those people need him, but most of them must be gone already, and he’s sure his new therapist would have an opinion about the uselessness of the sentiment. So he shuts his laptop and goes first to the range, then visits the gym which puts him in excellent spirits. Right until he comes back to his room with a coffee and gets a phone call.

“Barton, where are you?” Coulson enquires almost politely, but Clint knows.

Frantically, he searches his brain for a good excuse, but comes up with only ‘what the hell brain?’.

Shit.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I forgot?”

It’s true after all. Clint has been so relieved to get off with a mere ten-session sentence that he agreed to the appointments and promptly forgot to make a note in his brain about actually going.

“We can reschedule, right? I promise to make it next time, sir.”

He knows that his participation in the next day’s STRIKE team training is dependent on the therapist’s preliminary clearance and is now most probably not happening.

“In an hour. Same place, Barton.”

Clint sighs in relief. “Thank you, sir.”

“Just make it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Shit. Clint is such a fuck-up.

Suddenly, all his good mood disappears like a thin puff of smoke and he’s glad that he doesn't actually have time to call Tony, because otherwise, he probably would. Ignoring the urge every minute of every day is exhausting and he’s too tired to fight it right now. He just gets into the shower and thinks of what he should wear. He wants to take his bow with him but this is a ridiculous notion. His therapist undoubtedly knows that he isn’t going on missions yet. What about the range though? If he swings by there, he doesn’t even need to lie.

Jesus, Barton. Get a grip.

  
  


The session goes better and worse than he expected, but is just as tiring. In the end, he manages to leave his bow at home and feels better for it - he loves her but he shouldn’t use her as a crutch. He rewards himself with almost three hours at the range, and after that he goes to the same bar he’d drunk at the last time.

The next morning he gets three texts from Tony and his heart starts thudding in his ears, but a moment later he realizes it’s probably about the subpoena for the Karimov hearing. He got his summons last night too.

Clint sits back onto the bed and stares at the phone, unsure if he even wants to know what Tony writes after the  _ Hi :) how’s it going? _ he can see on his lock screen.

Whatever it is, it’s business, not pleasure, he tells himself. Maybe Tony wanted to meet up before the hearing for some reason? If not, maybe Clint could chat him up afterward and ask him out-

No. This line of thought is as pathetic as a procession of marching clowns, so he shuts it down. Tony might have been friendly to him and even flirted out of habit during the past few weeks but he’s not going to be interested. His gut would probably turn if Clint touched him. Why would Tony ever want to be touched by Clint ever again? Clint doesn't even want to touch himself these days.

He can’t forget the wide-eyed look Tony had while he was scrambling to get Mehrab’s gun. So brave and brilliant.

And Clint almost got him killed.

That, for some reason, makes him think of Aryan, of the betrayed look he shot Clint as if he really thought that they’d been friends. Which then makes Clint think of his kids, especially little Parviz, who was about four when Clint first saw him. A cute boy, the light of Aryan’s life really. Clint had once passed Parviz his ball back at the yard, and they’d even managed to play together for a short while until the sitter took the boy away hurriedly. The boy had never forgiven Clint for being ‘a very bad man’. At least going by the determined way the boy ignored Clint any time they passed each other after that.

None of this is helping. Clint sets the phone on his night table and gets into the shower. He feels better when he’s clean but not much braver. Being a chicken shit has never stopped him though, so he finally opens his phone and takes a look at the text.

_ Hi :) how’s it going? Wanna graba beer? Or two? Ima several drinks in tho _

_ No? Nvrmind then :) _

_ Your loss, loser _

Clint takes a deep breath, disappointment clutching like a steel vice around his chest.

Yes. Yes, it is.

God. Even if he was drunk, Tony wanted to hang out with him last night, and Clint had slept through it like cotton wad in a sack. Deaf as a pillow stuffing. Blind as a rusty trash can. Just. So. Stupid.

Should he text him back? Now? Several hours later? That would look stupid, right?

Well. This is stupid, Clint decides only a few minutes later, pulling his jeans on. At worst, it’s going to be humiliating as fuck, and no one has ever been killed by a little humiliation. But unless Clint asks, he’s not going to know. And he needs to know.

It only takes him 40 minutes to get to the mansion, which is good time for this time of the day, but it’s also enough time for him to realize for the millionth time that this is stupid. But he thought the same just 40 minutes ago, so nothing’s changed and he’s still here.

His hand is hovering above the doorbell button.

God, this Stupid now has a capital letter in his head.

He lowers his hand and takes his phone out. Tony picks up on the fourth ring.

"Clint! Hi!"

Tony’s voice is too bright, full to the brim with fake levity. Aw-kward.

"Yeah, hi, Tony." Clint clears his throat but suddenly his mind is blank. "Um…"

"Yeah, listen," Tony jumps in. "If it's about the text, just ignore it! Was just drunk-texting, you know how it is… you get buzzed, then maudlin and next thing you know, you're texting your ex… Not that you are my ex, didn't mean it like that. Just when the blues hit me sometimes I get... Well, you know..." There's a pause as if Tony's waiting for Clint to step in and save him from babbling, just as he'd done countless times before, but he can't. His heart is in his throat because this is monumental. This is too good to be true and Clint just wants to-

"Won't happen again, okay?" Tony sounds deflated. "I promise. I'll just hang up..."

His voice is trailing off as if he's already lowering his phone and Clint can't, definitely can't allow that.

“Tony!” he shouts, hoping against hope that Tony will hear. His other hand is on the buzzer leaning on as if his life depends on it. “Tony, wait!”

If Tony hangs up now, he'll probably never answer his call again and Clint will have to scale his wall and climb into his house via an attic window or do something really crazy like calling from a strange number or something…

“Yeah, hang on,” Tony says in the midst of Clint’s panic. “Someone’s at the door. I think Jarvis is out.”

Clint takes his hand off the buzzer. “No, no one is at the door, don't worry about it,” Clint says hurriedly, thinking that scaling the wall feels like a good escape route right about now.

“What?” Tony asks. “How would you…?”

Tony trails off and Clint presses his eyes shut. He wishes he could hear if there are steps behind the door. Maybe Tony is already downstairs, or maybe Clint has some time to dive into the bushes. But Clint is not going to dive into the bushes.

“Clint, are you…?”

Clint thinks he can hear Tony’s voice’s double echo from behind the door, but it might be his imagination.

“Are you at the door?”

Yep. Yep, he’s here.

Like a lovesick idiot, he puts his palm on the dark wood.

“So what if I were?”

There’s a split-second pause only this time. “Do you mind coming in?”

Clint swallows.

“Yeah, okay.”

He unscrunches his eyes and lifts his head just as the door opens and there Tony is: in a light blue button-down, with his collar open and sleeves rolled up. Clint looks down into his bright blue eyes that are searching for his, and are so, so hopeful and even desperate, that Clint just drops his phone, steps closer and kisses him.

His arms raise and cup Tony’s head, holding him in place, just fuck-

One of them moans and that might be Clint, he’s not sure. He pushes Tony back inside and closes the door. Tony crowds him against it and snakes his hands behind Clint’s back, clutches his shirt and holds on. Now it’s definitely Clint who groans because he knows that he can’t let it go on like this, he can’t-

“Tony,” he says almost plaintively. “Tony, stop.”

“What?”

Tony’s hair is disheveled, his lips red and eyes bright, and Clint wants-

“I would abso-fucin-lutely go on kissing you forever,” he says, rubbing Tony’s arms, “but I can’t do this if you… I mean.” Clint takes a fortifying breath. “I know what I am, I know what I did, and I’m sorry about all the lies and getting you into my mess and fucking your life up.”

“Clint—”

“No, hear me out!” Clint stares into Tony’s stormy eyes and powers on, “I’m so very sorry about how it all went down and I know I can’t really ask for it, but I want…”

He runs out of breath and clarity of what it is exactly that he wants. He never expected to actually get to say even half of it.

“What? What is it that you want?” Tony asks, his eyes sparkling and for the first time Clint is starting to think that maybe he can actually have this. “I can give you a lot,” Tony goes on with a smile, “but not before you actually tell me what it is that you are asking, sweetheart.”

Clint’s breath hitches at the endearment.

“Tony.” He swallows heavily. “Tony, cupcake,” he starts again fumbling for words. “I want… I want to lease an awful apartment with a loft and have you over.” He takes a deep breath. “All the time. Feed you cold pizza in the morning and cuddle with you on a lumpy sofa in the evening. And take you up to the loft at night where our dog will leave us alone if we are lucky and...”

Clint shrugs helplessly at Tony’s goofy grin, which promptly morphs into something smoother and slightly salacious. The warmth in his eyes, however, is still the same.

“Tony?” Clint whispers because he’s out of ideas of what stupid else he can offer to a billionaire who probably doesn’t need anything he can offer ever, but maybe might want something if Clint is clever enough to give it to him.

"Hi there,” Tony croons, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Are you my hero come to the rescue?”

Clint gasps. This is exactly what Clint had said that first time on the wrong floor of the hotel, behind the wrong door with the wrong key card but this time, it is Tony seducing him, rescuing him—

“Depends on what you need saving from, sugar," Clint responds, offering Tony’s words back to him, but he knows that he’s not the hero. Tony is. Tony saved him back then and he’s throwing him a lifeline now.

The moment stretches out as they gaze at each other, their goofy smiles softening.

“Just from my miserably lonely existence,” Tony whispers. “What’s your name, handsome?”

“Clint. Clint Barton, at your service.” Not Daniel Lorraine, nor Mackenzie, not even Hawkeye or any of his other aliases. Just Clint. Himself. And there are no agendas here, not anymore.

“It’s a pleasure, Clint Barton,” Tony replies, “You know who I am.”

He leans into a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. I must confess, I was holding onto this after I finished and couldn't post it because I didn't want it to be over, but it's time to say good buy. I don't think I've ever gotten teary about posting the last chapter. I am sad. I love this story.  
> To everyone who's been reading this with me this past month, commented, betaed and cheered for me, left kudos or just appreciated the story - I love you all!  
> From the bottom of my heart: thank you! <3

**Author's Note:**

> TY for reading. :)  
> I hope you liked <3


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